


Beneath the Trees Where Nobody Sees

by Patch



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Death, Bestiality, Blood, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Found Family, Hunk & Keith (Voltron) Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Magic, Mild Gore, Mild Horror, Minor Hunk/Keith (Voltron), Minor Hunk/Kinkade, No beta we die like illiterates, Self-Harm, Sex Magic, Shapeshifting, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Top Shiro (Voltron), Werewolf Shiro (Voltron), Witch Keith (Voltron), for the use of Blood Magic, in that Keith likes Hunks arms, in that Shiro will fuck Keith in full wolf form
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patch/pseuds/Patch
Summary: That was the thing with Daibazaal; it wasn’t dense at all at first, certainly not enough to ward someone off—even hunters still made use of the edges of it. But at some point, between one step and the next it swallowed you whole.
Relationships: Hunk & Keith (Voltron), Hunk & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 234





	1. Remains

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to Viper for egging me on as soon as I started contemplating writing it, as well as C and Ils for reassuring me that my ability to write atmosphere isn't actually non-existent.
> 
> Also PLEASE READ THE TAGS, I’m well aware that what’s going to be in here will not be for everyone and thats why I put the warnings there.

_Hey there Little Red Riding Hood_

_I'd like to hold you if I could_

_But you might think I'm_

_a big bad wolf so I won't._

_What a big heart I have,_

_All the better to love you with._

_Hey there Little Red Riding Hood_

_Even bad wolves can be good._

xXx

Dry and frost tipped brush cracks beneath his feet as Keith works his way deeper into the forest. The night is dark and gloomy, the white moon hiding behind the thick cloud cover that had become a constant near two weeks prior. Every now and then, slush falls from the branches above, disturbed by the wind howling its way through the creaking trees. 

Everything is black and brown, grey and white—even his breath. There’s no green and no movement that couldn’t be explained away by the horrid weather.

Everywhere, winter’s chill holds everything at a standstill. 

Keith grunts as his foot slips on a wet stone, and he just barely manages to catch himself against the gnarled trunk of a tree. He still lands hard though, shoulder checking against the old wood with a dull thud that reverberates through his bones with a rattle.

He curses Sanda viciously as he straightens and continues onwards.

He wasn’t insane. 

Daibazaal was an unwelcoming forest at the best of times, let alone in the dead of night, in winter, with no lantern. The trees were ancient; entwined thick enough that even full sun has trouble penetrating down to the forest floor and the air is often close enough to choke on, heavy with age. Wolves and bear and elk weren’t uncommon sights, poisonous plants grew everywhere in abundance and...

There were _other_ things that roamed amongst the trees. Older, far more dangerous things which would have made a beeline for a lantern-light the moment they saw one. 

Which was probably why the villagers usually had _him_ be the one to brave it.

Keith knew that they often regarded him with suspicion—which was fair because that was how he regarded them as well. 

He’d come to the village alone and had only spoken to the people there long enough to pay for the unwanted plot of land at the edge of the forest and to buy tools sturdy enough to repair the cottage that had come with it. He was fairly certain that the only reason they’d let him stay was because they’d been in desperate need of a Hedge Witch and Keith was their only option.

So when the Sanda and her men had found themselves on his doorstep that evening, he’d wanted to turn them away, but he hadn’t. His continued existence in the village was dependent on the tentative balance they’d struck and his gut has been telling him recently that if he denies their requests, no matter how unreasonable, then the scales will tip in a direction he’s currently unprepared for.

And so, here he is, traversing a forest at night.

The gloom deepens and deepens the further he walks and the chill was beginning to cut through his heavy cloak and even the ruby red scarf wrapped about his neck and lower face. His hands ache with it where they aren’t protected by his gloves and he flexes them again and again to try and work out the stiffness. 

The first drops of water hit his hood like a bad omen. They’re huge and heavy, half ice from the cold air and Keith can't do much by that point other than sigh. 

He pauses under the leeward side of a boulder, and raises both hands to press against the thickly spun fabric of his scarf. He takes a breath and closes his eyes. There’s a hum, like the air after a lightning strike, and then the runes woven into the fabric shimmer and heat starts to bleed through the strands. 

Steam licks from him in curls as the fabric warms. He stays there for a moment, huddled against the stone as he lets the chill recede from his bones. 

He takes a deep breath, and then another before continuing his search. 

The hour stretches long, rain falling harder and the wind howling stronger before he eventually finds what he’s looking for.

The sunken clearing they’re growing in is partially obscured by the brittle dead branches of some type of scrub bush and far _far_ west of the place he’d seen them last. They carpet the forest floor, beautiful and enticing, their white petals quivering slightly in the wind and rain, almost luminous against the surrounding dark. Keith crouches at the edge, careful not to walk amongst the waist high flowers and slings his small pack off shoulder. 

He hunches forward, rooting around until he pulls out a small vial and then the dark bladed knife from his belt. Carefully he reaches forward, ignoring the petals for the dark, almost black leaves below them. He grabs one, flipping it over so the underside is exposed and carefully scrapes off the almost iridescent power clinging to the underside. 

He scrapes it off the blade into the vial and reaches for another, only barely has the chance to snatch his hand back when the leaf _moves._

A soft rustling starts up, almost inaudible over the wind and rain as the camouflaged insects clinging to the stems of the flowers begin to shift, searching for the meal that had disturbed them. It takes a while to collect the powder while avoiding the Fleshbane and their ever hungry maws. He barely flinches when he parts the stems of a small cluster to find a semi fresh kill laying half buried amongst the roots. 

It might have been a deer once, one unlucky enough to wander through the Blood Lilies and linger long enough for the Fleshbane to get at it. 

Keith works his way around the edge of the small field until the small vial is almost full. 

The rain is just beginning to lighten when he shoulders his pack again, and slips back into the shifting shadows of the forest and away from the clearing. 

He quickly finds himself having to zigzag to all points of the compass to avoid the snares of twisted roots and bare, thorny brush that have seemingly appeared out of thin air to fill the gaps between trees. The air grew colder and colder the further he went and the tangled mess of jagged wooden branches seemed to be funnelling him ever northward and away from his destination. 

That was the thing with Daibazaal; it wasn’t dense at all at first, certainly not enough to ward someone off—even hunters still made use of the edges of it. But at some point, between one step and the next it swallowed you whole. 

Keith slows to a stop, teeth bared in a silent snarl under the scarf. His internal clock was telling him that it was either nearing two in the morning or sometime just after and he sincerely didn’t want to still be there when it finally hit three. 

He fingers the blade at his hip.

Rolling his shoulders, Keith turns to look at the woods around him. In the direction he wants to go there’s a dense wall of thorns and spear-like branches. Behind him, there’s just enough of a gap that in the low light it looks like a path. 

Keith doesn’t trust that path. 

Around him the trees groan and sigh with the wind. If he let himself, he could almost imagine the villagers inside their homes; safe and warm. It makes something black and bitter roil in his chest. 

Even with his scarf, Keith was cold and wet a miserable. The dark and damp press of trees around him was suffocating in its way; far worse than it ever was during the day, even amongst foul weather. His eyes were tired and his limbs were growing stiff the longer he let the chill eat into him. 

But there was some part of him—the gnawing _biting_ part of him that the softer villagers flinched from—that was wide awake and finely honed. It was the part of him that had him tensing in his cottage or on the road when there was a small sound or movement beyond the normal; that had him waking from a deep sleep without the slow blink to wakefulness at the presence of something unnatural. 

In that moment, that part of him sat up and whispered at him to _listen._

There was a long stretch of silence between the howling of the wind and the low moans of the trees. It presses in on him, until it feels like his ribs might creak under its weight. 

A _crash_ erupts from somewhere behind him. 

It’s the sound of splintering wood, of root and earth being torn apart. Like a ghost, Keith slips into the deeper shadows and hides. From his spot he stares into the woods, eyes straining to spot the faintest bit of movement but aside from the branches shivering in the wind there’s nothing between the trunks and amongst the bracken. 

But the sound of the crack still echoes through his ears and, as he listens, he catches the faint sound of a stone ricocheting off tree trunks somewhere in the black. 

His pulse kicks up as he feels something shifting just beyond his line of sight. 

Pulling his blade from its sheath, Keith moves. 

The knife lengthens with a dull flash but the time for subtlety is over. He swings at the branches and the thicket blocking his way home and the wood cleaves easily under the blade. Somewhere far behind him something clamours towards him, shambling and ungainly but intent. 

Keith darts between the trees, slashing as he goes. He feels bits of branches and twigs try to pull and snag at his clothes but the cloak is woven too tightly for them to grasp. His feet are sure as he runs, silent and swift as adrenaline sets his heart to racing. 

A stray branch swipes and he feels a sharp sting against his cheek, just above the edge of the scarf. He ignores it and runs and runs and _runs._

All the while he can hear it, following behind—too close for comfort, far too close—the snaps and pops of saplings and branches breaking as whatever it was kept pace with him. It’s hard going between the slick ground and having to forge his own path. The cold stings at the bits of his skin that aren’t covered by the warmth of his scarf and gloves and the longer he runs the more he can feel the forest try to turn him back.

Keith stumbles to a stop, only just managing to avoid careening into the deadfall in front of him. The fallen tree feels like it’s appeared from nowhere, rising up out of the shadows like a mountain. 

“Fuck,” Keith hisses, casting about for somewhere to go but coming up empty. On its side, it stands taller than him and it stretches in both directions like it goes on forever; a dead giant.

Keith takes a step back and then lunges, knife biting into the wood and giving him a leverage point to haul himself higher. His nails dig deep as he scrambles to the top and then throws himself off the other side, and down down down.

He only just manages to bite off a shout when he falls further on the other side than he expected, the ground sloping away at a dramatic incline. He lands hard, his ankle twisting under his weight and his breath punches from his lungs in a gasp of pain. 

He barely has time to catch his breath, standing gingerly with his weight on one leg, when he hears it—the wet sound of something big breathing close by. 

He throws himself behind a tree, one nearly as wide as the fallen giant, and presses himself tight against the bark. A hand comes up to muffle the breaths that want to shudder out of him—too loud, he needs to be _quiet_ —and he waits.

There’s no breeze. At some point during his run or after his fall, the wind had died back down to nothing. Beyond the almost inaudible sounds of his breath and the faint noise of water dripping from branches, the forest had fallen into an uneasy silence around him. It was the kind of stillness that provoked a reaction, that made the animal thing in Keith’s chest snap; made it want to run or fight. 

But he couldn’t run, a quick shift of his ankle told him that. It wasn’t broken but at the very least it was a bad sprain. Casting his eyes about in the dark, Keith searched for a way out. 

His problem was that in amongst the trees he wouldn’t see what was hunting him until it was too late. The light from the moon had dropped again; the tangled twists of branches were so thick that they blotted out the light in this part of the woods. The shadows were deep and long, the underbrush thick with thorns and slick roots. If only he could find somewhere with just a bit of space—

His thoughts were interrupted by another _crash._

Out there, in the ocean of countless trees and thick darkness, a branch or tree was snapped like kindling, the sound splintering off in all directions so that after a second, Keith could barely remember where it had come from. He shifts sideways, back pressed against unforgiving bark. 

There were another series of sounds, small pops and cracks that echo from his far left and Keith moves further, keeping himself out of sight. 

There was silence for a moment before he hears it again, this time from his right; that wet animalistic breathing, followed by a coughing call. It’s not a sound he’s ever heard before; a strange mix between something bovine and a dog, one of the desert ones he’d seen as a child—an almost hiccuping cry.

Keith tries to picture it, this creature, but can’t. It’s big, he knows that, and quiet when it wants to be—a predator certainly, but try as he might he can’t put a name to the sounds.

It’s possible (maybe even more than possible the longer he thinks about it) that whatever it is, isn’t from Daibazaal. 

The winter they’ve been having has been driving things down from the mountains; strange things— _old_ things—that haven’t walked amongst the trees in millennia. He’s heard talk amongst the villagers when he’s gone into town to see Hunk; whispers from other towns and other settlements about moving shadows. It was a risk they all took, living this close to the forests. Daibazaal might have been the deepest and the darkest but Oriande and the Olkari Woods still held their fair amount of dangers; dangers which have grown since the almost unnatural chill had gripped the land.

There’s another sound, closer this time and coming from his left. He moves again but not before chancing a glance in the direction the noise had come from.

There’s nothing there. Just thick wet walls of foliage, mossy bark and blackened trees. 

Keith lets his head thunk back against the wood. It’s late and exhaustion is beginning to drag at his bones, and his face and scarf is tacky with drying blood from the scrape he’d gotten while running. His ankle throbs in time with his heartbeat. 

He lets his eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and quietens the part of him that’s beginning to panic. 

Keith has never been a thing to be hunted. Not even as a child, filled with soft tender parts; back then he’d spit and clawed when backed into a corner. At twenty one years, he had far sharper teeth, he just needed to be in a position to _use_ them.

Calmed, Keith opens his eyes, blinks and then cocks his head to the side.

It was minuscule the difference, but it was there; beyond the line of trees and brush in front of him, an area where the thick blackness shifted to an ever so lighter grey. He could make out shapes in the distance which was more than he could say for anywhere else and a quiver of something went through him at the sight.

The change in the darkness meant there was light breaking through the canopy—not much, but maybe just enough that he could get some space to work. 

His breath fogs out of him as he breathes deep, fumbling a glove off and then clenching a hand tight around the hilt of his blade. He tests his ankle and it stings but not enough that it’ll stop him. He counts down.

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

He darts forward and he feels more than sees something follow.

He cuts through the brush and runs for the clearing he can now see before him, ignoring the pain lancing up his leg. He throws himself forward into a roll and feels the air behind him displace as something swipes at him. He slides smoothly into a couch and, not giving himself time to think, slices his palm open.

Blood drips down his wrist, hot and red and with a whisper, it _ignites._

Light flares bright, beating back the gloom and something reaching for him shrieks and reels back. Keith slams his palm against the ground and vicious red spiderwebs its way out from him. The closest scrub surrounding him blackens and greys as it turns to ash and his fire stops just shy of the edge of the small clearing, pulsing in time with his heart beat. 

He won’t be able to hold this forever, but hopefully _It_ won't know that.

By the light of his fire he can’t see more than a foot into the trees, everything beyond that point falling into murky darkness. The branches of the closest trees flicker and dance in the light, ghostly and grey. 

Quietly, he scans the darkness. He can see vague shapes in the dark, things which quickly redefine themselves the longer he looks. The wind is rising again and his fire flickers and sways where it burns low and contained, with him sitting in the centre like a spider in its web. Tree branches sway with their sparse leaves and the thicket below them moves like something living but the longer he crouches there, the more he can feel it; a dark mass moving through the trees just beyond sight. 

It’s circling him.

Keith holds steady, red light burning itself into his vision. 

“Where are you,” he mutters.

Try as he might he can’t pinpoint it. Every time he thinks he’s close to spotting it, he feels it drop away. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays crouched. His knees ache from holding the same position and he’s beginning to feel cold in a way that has nothing to do with winter's chill. His eyes are heavy and the ache building behind them from the strain threatens to turn sharp.

It takes a second for him to realise that he can’t feel it moving about. There’s a new stillness to the forest and it makes his heart trip in his chest. 

Keith turns slowly and looks behind him. 

Between two trees is a shape that his mind tells him wasn’t there before. It isn’t moving. It’s still in a way that’s far from natural, like a boulder or the remains of a dead tree. Just a long, dark reaching form standing just beyond the light. 

Keith doesn’t want to see it. 

Some part of him—a part of him that was wholly human—rebels at the sight. The rest of him, however, narrows in on the nearest part of the shape, something long and thin, resting just inside the bounds of the clearing. It feels like a stalemate, as they both stand frozen. 

Then Keith grits his teeth behind his scarf. 

“Fuck off,” he snarls and his spider web flickers.

The heat in his veins flares and the fire moves like something living. It darts forward, and between one breath and another, it bites at the spindly black limb. Some part of it scrapes, like bone against stone and then it _shrieks._ The shape rears back as Keith rises, hand up and moving. The fire flows with it and the thing in the woods skitters and branches crack under its weight as it tears its limb from his grasp.

Keith's fire coils back and around him, and he raises his hands up, his blade in one while the other continues to drip red.

Amongst the trees the Thing stands, rising up and up until it’s brushing against the tallest branches of the surrounding trees. Pale moonlight pierces through the canopy and reflects off something slick, like hide covered in oil.

It shrieks again, loud enough to shake the earth beneath his feet but Keith stands firm even as something cold lances through his chest at the sound; if he tried, he could almost hear words in the noise. 

The Thing darts to the side, quick and sinuous in a way that living things aren’t meant to move. 

Something whips out from the trees and he only barely manages to dodge it. It’s enough, though, for him to see it better at it steps closer towards him.

His brain tries to make sense of the shape for a second before he carefully locks the sight away, concentrating instead on the hot glow of his own fire. He sees just enough to pinpoint its mass—a thick inky shadow—and he pulls at the line of heat running from his heart to his hand.

The low crackle of his fire rises to a pitch and he hears the Thing snort. Before he second guesses himself, Keith throws and the fire lances itself to hit dead centre. 

There’s a sound like the felling of a tree and it stumbles, and then howls. The wind whips into a frenzy and, just as he falls to his knees, hands shaking and cold, it’s gone. 

Keith blinks away the afterimage of it sliding back off into the darkness.

“Heh,” he chuckles and then tips onto his back.

xXx 

The heat of the smithy is a welcome change to the heavy chill everywhere else. Keith kicks one boot against the entrance and then gently scrapes the other, dislodging the snow and mud. He steps inside the heavy door and then carefully tugs off his coat, working around the carved wooden crutch. He leaves the scarf on. 

He can hear banging coming from the other room and heads in that direction after hanging up his coat. The crutch thuds out of time with his footfalls, awkward and ungainly. The air in the other room tastes like metal and sparks and he hears Hunk curse softly when the fire in the forge flares slightly in greeting.

“Oops,” Keith says, watching the blacksmith jump. “Sorry, Hunk.”

The larger man spins, a heavy hammer clutched to his chest in one hand. “Wha—oh, Keith!” He wipes away the sweat beading on his brow with one arm and then blinks at him. 

“Man, you look awful,” he says, sounding aghast. “What happened, did you lose a fight with a bear?”

Keith looks at him, nonplussed, before looking down at himself.

“I look that bad, huh,” he asks wryly.

“Uh, I mean, no?” Keith looks up at Hunk and he wilts. “Okay, yes, sort of. What _happened?_ ”

Keith lets Hunk usher him to one of the chairs by the forge and slumps into it, sighing happily as the heat begins to sink into him. He reaches out a hand and rests it against the stonework and smiles softly as a tendril of fire licks up to curl about a finger. 

He hears a quiet huff and looks up quick enough to catch the soft look on Hunk’s face before it bleeds away under a wave of embarrassment. Coughing, Hunk grabs another chair and plonks it down beside Keith.

“Keith,” he says earnestly, “What’s going on?”

Keith brushes his fingers along the bruising cut on his cheek, hand wrapped tight in bandages. 

“Had to go out last night,” he says after a while. “Ran into something.”

It’s amazing how quickly Hunk’s face goes from softly concerned, to livid. His hand tightens on the handle of the heavy hammer and his usually kind eyes go dark. 

“You mean they forced you to go out,” he bites, “and you almost got _eaten_ for it.”

Keith shrugs. “More or less,” he admits tiredly.

Probably a little more on the less side, Keith thinks. It’s not like the villagers forced him out of his cottage at knife point—not like they could’ve even if they wanted to. No, he’d stepped out of his home under his own power and he’d walked into the woods the same way.

He tell’s Hunk as such.

Hunk scoffs. “You say that like it means anything,” he grumbles. “They know you can’t really say no to them, so they were forcing you.” The more he thinks about it the more agitated he seems to get. “Just because none of them have the skills to go in there and come back out doesn’t mean they can just— _make_ you do it.”

“Actually it kinda does mean that,” Keith points out gently. He raises his hands when Hunk’s head snaps up to glare at him. 

“Just saying,” Keith says awkwardly. 

Hunk shakes his head, the worn yellow ends of the fabric about his forehead swinging with it. “No, Keith, it’s not right. It’s not decent. I’ll talk to the Village Head about it, make her see reason—”

“Hunk,” Keith tries but his friend doesn’t seem to hear him. With a huff Keith kicks out a leg, catching him in the shin with his unbandaged foot. “It’s fine,” he says when he finally gets his attention. “Besides I don’t think even you have enough goodwill with Sanda to do that.”

Hunk stares at him for a moment before groaning in defeat. “You’re probably right,” he sighs. “To be honest, I’m not even sure they know the meaning of the term.”

“Probably,” Keith agrees. 

The two of them fall back into silence, broken only by the pops and crackles of the fire as it whispers in the forge. Keith’s eyes slide shut and he can feel the ache of exhaustion still gnawing at his bones. 

He’d dragged himself back to his cottage the previous night sometimes after three, skulled a drink that was entirely a stimulant and probably would’ve killed him if he was anyone else and made the medicine for the Sanda's son-in-law. He’d finally dragged himself back home just as the weak dawn light was beginning to spill over the valley only to find that the wind had broken the window in the attic.

He was tired and he was sore and he wanted nothing more than to sleep for maybe a year.

He’s just beginning to doze off when a hand brushes his shoulder, the touch light as a feather. Keith opens his eyes, humming a query.

“You should go sleep, Keith,” Hunk says, frowning at him.

“I thought I was,” Keith grumbles around a yawn.

“I meant in an actual bed,” Hunk says. “I’m flattered that you came by to see me, but you look dead on your feet.”

Keith rolls his shoulders in a vain attempt at relaxing the muscles there. “Actually I came by to ask if I can steal some nails from you. I need to board up my attic window.”

“Yeah, sure thing man.” Keith watches as Hunk walks over to one of his heavy work benches. He rummages around, sending nuts and bolts and what looked like a horseshoe rolling. “I told you, you should have let me put in shutters for you ages ago.” He turns, holding out a small bag. “Do you have enough wood to bar it up?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, accepting the bag. He tucks it away in the pouch at his hip, the metal rattling together with the movement. Then he pauses, looking back up at Hunk.

“Okay that’s a serious look,” Hunk says with a nervous laugh. “What now?”

Keith looks behind him at the workbench, gnawing lightly at his lip. 

“There was something out there last night,” he says eventually.

Hunk shrugs slowly, a cautious look on his face. “It’s Daibazaal—there’s always something out there.”

Keith shook his head. “No,” he says quietly. “This was something new.”

“Something new?” A look of unease flashes over Hunks face. “Okay, cool. What does that mean?”

Keith shrugs. “I don’t know yet. Hunk, I don't even know what it _was._ Something from the deep parts of the forest maybe. But…” Keith bites his lip again, thinking. “Do you think I could have that horseshoe? And any iron shavings you have lying around?”

Hunk nods slowly. “Sure.” He grabs it for Keith and hands it over and the weight settles in his palm, reassuring. “What are you going to do with it?” he asks as he pulls out a heavy box and dumps it onto the workbench.

Keith limps over, watching him. “Put it above the door. You should put one up too. Just in case,” he adds when Hunk finally pulls out a small tin. 

“Okay,” Hunk says easily, handing over the tin. “And the shavings?” 

“I don’t know yet,” Keith says absently as he hefts the tin in his hand. “I’ll think of something. Either way, it’s a good thing to have on hand.”

Hunk hums. 

Keith shakes his head and tucks the tin away with the nails. “Anyway, I should be going.” 

“Take care Keith,” Hunk says seriously. “Don’t go back out until your leg is better, I’m begging you.”

“I won’t,” Keith promises. “Don’t forget to put the horseshoes up either. One on every door to the house, Hunk.”

Hunk nods.

xXx

The walk back to his cottage is slow and arduous. It’s not that Hunk’s smithy is far from his cottage—in fact it’s probably one of the closest buildings to his home out of all the village—but the ground has turned to ice in spots after the rain and the path to his cottage is lacklustre at best.

In fact calling it a path might be giving it too much credit. There were no cobblestones, no neatly defined edges like the paths that lead through the rest of the village and towards the rest of the houses. Normally he doesn’t mind that; in summer the wildflowers bloom in a riot of colour that isn’t seen in the rest of the village and the bushes grow heavy with sweet berries. Now though, it’s a pain at best.

Despite the fact that its nearing midday, the sky is grey and overcast. The path winds itself up the slope, curving around a smattering of trees that grow twisted and low to the ground, far from the towering giants that grow at even the edges of the woods.

He can see it from the path too. The forest looms nearby, casting long shadows across the small strip of field that separates the path and his house from its doorstep.

Sometimes he thinks it creeps closer, edging ever nearer to the rowan wood fence he’d put up around his cottage and its small garden, but other times it’s back to where it belongs.

Keith breathes a sigh of relief when his garden gate comes into view. He can’t stop himself from picking up the pace, not when home and hearth is so close to being within reach. His hands shake as they make to unlatch the gate. He grabs too hard and the palm of his hand stings under its layer of bandages. He’s swinging it open when he freezes. 

The hair dusting the nape of his neck pricks and the breeze dies down to a sullen quiet. Between one breath and the next there’s silence across the field. Slowly he turns, a bizarre parody of the night before.

There’s nothing there.

The field is empty, a blanket of white and grey stretching between him and the forest's edge. There’s no movement anywhere, no fluttering of birds out hunting, no nothing. Shadows play over the snow as the clouds drift and it takes a while for him to realise that the shadows cast by the distant trees are _wrong._

They stretch too far and too deep, like they were trying to reach across the divide.

Keith stares into the space between trees and feels something stare back.

There’s a sense of movement, a shape melting away, like a shadow passing under the sun. Keith blinks and draws in a sharp breath and around him the wind comes back and the faint, sparse sound of birdsong with it.

Despite not feeling the presence anymore—or maybe because he doesn’t—Keith hurries inside his garden and locks the gate behind him. He limps up the steps of his porch and over to his door and stumbles inside but doesn’t close it. Instead he grabs the small wooden step ladder sitting propped up against his book shelf and drags it back outside. 

Carefully he fixes the horseshoe above his door, the heavy thuds of his hammer echoing across the field. It takes a minute to affix it to his liking but once he has it up he feels better. Safer. Cold Iron above the entrance to his home, handmade by a friend. 

Feeling more settled, Keith climbs back down, wincing as he puts weight against his leg. He carries everything back inside and locks the door behind him.

With a heavy sigh, strips of his cloak and his scarf and his boots, wincing as he pulls off the left one to reveal lurid bruising creeping its way past the bandages. He limps over to the heavy table by the kitchen and dumps his pouch there, the tin tumbling out after the opened bag of nails. 

He was tired but he also knew that if he sat down now then he wouldn’t get up again and there were things he needs to do before he lets that happen.

He grabs a heavy pitcher and fills it with water before placing it on the ledge of the window. Ideally he’d have the shutters open but today he leaves them shut fast against the outside. He grabs the tin Hunk gave him, opens it and then carefully scrapes a small portion of the iron shavings into the water. He packs the tin away before grabbing the bag of nails and the hammer and makes the slow agonising trip up to the attic.

Luckily for him, he’d had the foresight to bring the wood up there earlier and it takes him about fifteen minutes to get the broken window covered fully. The room is quickly swallowed by darkness until he lights the lantern he’d left on one of the small benches scattered haphazardly about the room. He steps back to look at his work, frowning as he goes over what he’ll need to do to get the glass replaced. 

With yawn, he leaves the hammer and nails where they are and makes to leave. The job is done well enough to serve, the books and dried herbs and other odds and ends packed away in the attic will be safe from the wind and rain. 

It takes longer going back downstairs than it had going up and by the time he gets to the entrance to his bedroom, both legs are shaking and the hand holding the lantern is drooping under its weight.

Keith puts the lantern on the small bedside table and slowly strips off the rest of his clothing, letting pants and shirt fall to the ground while placing his knife and belt beside the lantern.

He should re-wrap his hand and his ankle, should put something on it to help the swelling and the pain but the thought of standing and staying up long enough to do it sends another wave of exhaustion through him like a flash of lightning. Instead he sways where he sits before crawling under the dark blue blankets.

Though its midday outside the only source of light is the tiny flame in the lantern. 

He reaches out to snuff it, already half asleep when his hand stalls. 

Swallowing hard, Keith rolls over, moving his leg about until he finds a position more comfortable. Then he pulls the blankets up around his chin and closes his eyes.

xXx

Keith wakes up feeling like death warmed over. 

His mouth is dry, his eyes feel like they’re full of grit and there’s a pounding in his head that’s mimicked by one in his chest. He groans, turning to bury his face back into the blankets only to have the lancing pain through his calves and thighs force him to standstill.

At least the palm of his hand was numb.

It was all the equivalent of a hangover, he knew. His last stand in the woods had drained him enough, energy bleeding out with blood, but the stimulants he took afterwards had scraped him raw and now he was dealing with the consequences. 

He lets himself drift back into that soft place in-between sleep and wakefulness, content to linger there for a little longer to avoid dealing with the mess his body had become. He thinks he lays like that for an hour, maybe two before the urge to move overrides his desire to avoid pain.

With a groan he hefts himself up into a seating position. His legs feel like they’re filled with pins and needles and his vision fades in and out for a second. He sits there for a minute until the world stops shifting about him and the vague nausea goes away. Moving to the side of the bed is a struggle and getting up is even more so. He forgoes clothes completely and instead drags his blanket over his shoulders, wrapping it around himself like a cape or a robe.

Standing is a challenge. 

By some miracle, his ankle hasn’t swollen further during the night but the pain hasn’t lessened. He limps on bare feet to his bathroom and forces himself to go though his morning routine as much as possible. 

When Keith finally limps out into his living room, he feels marginally more human than something undead.

It takes a breath and a flick of a finger and then the hearth fire is growing, stoked from the glowing coals and embers where it had been sleeping. Hobbling over he tosses a log in to feed it and then heads into his kitchen. 

He’s still too tired to cook but there was bread and honey and the dried venison he had prepared before the winter had hit and he pulls it out and digs into it, sipping slowly at a glass of water. 

It takes a while before the hunger gnawing at him is sated and only then does he turn to deal with his leg and his hand. 

He grabs a stone bowl and fills it with water and then the solid mortar and pestle Hunk had gifted him after his previous one had broken. Then on aching legs he goes to the shelves lined with row after row of glass bottle and vial. He grabs three—one, a larger jar filled with small blue flowers, a second smaller jar containing a few remaining drops of a white almost opalescent liquid and the last, the same tiny vial of powder he collected the night before—and a tiny circular tin.

He dumps it all onto the table and pulls out three of the dried blue flowers, tossing them into the mortar and proceeds to grind them to a fine powder. He scatters the ground flowers into the water, stirring it with a finger three times before letting the current carry itself. He grabs the jar of liquid next, holding it up to the light and frowning.

It’s nectar from a Silver Bindweed and it was the last he had. He hadn’t seen the flowers in months, not since before the winter had hit and the thought was disconcerting at best. 

“Well,” he mutters to himself, “might as well.” And with that he tips the last few drops into the still turning water.

There’s a faint shimmer as the nectar hits the water and then it bleeds from clear into a strange silvery colour. 

Fixing his blanket about his shoulders better, Keith unravels the bandage on his hand and dips it into the water. There’s a second where the numbness of the cut flares hot, almost burning and he has to grit his teeth not pull his hand away out of reflex. It passes quickly and he watches as the silver water turns dull. He doesn’t pull his hand out until it resembles tarnished silver, dark and shimmery, almost like oil on water. 

When he pulls his hand out, the cut on the palm of his hand is almost gone. The corners of the cut are healed over with a shiny white scar while the centre looks tender and red with fresh skin. He flexes his hand and there’s a faint ache but he knows from experience that on a cut this size, it’ll be gone in a few hours. 

With that taken care of Keith sinks down into a chair and pulls a second one closer to prop his foot up. With a grimace, he pokes around the edges of the bruising. It’s a deep plum in places and almost red and green in others and all together he’s glad that Hunk didn’t see it or else he’d be on enforced bed rest for a week at least. 

As it is the idea of a week in bed makes his skin crawl. He scoops up the tiny tin and unscrews the lid and the fresh, bright smell of lemongrass fills the air. Keith dips a finger in the tin and scoops out a small amount of the slightly yellow salve. He rubs it into the tender skin of his ankle and he groans as he feels the constant throbbing subside. 

He does it three times, working it into the skin, and then slumps back into the chair. He moves his foot gently and hums. 

“Better,” he mutters to himself. If he kept off it as much as possible for the rest of the day then it would be well on its way to healed by the time he woke tomorrow. Flexing his toes, he winces.

He screws the lid back on the tin, and grabs the tiny vial. He uncorks it and places the tip of a finger over the opening and shakes, before replacing the stopper. 

Leaning forward, he takes the finger tipped in the powder and smears it in a ring around his ankle. A shudder runs up his spine as the feeling of numbness spreads until he can’t feel most of his leg or his finger. Quickly he rinses his finger off and then re-bandages his ankle, taking care to cover the powder and stop it from spreading about. Finally finished he cleans up his kitchen, disposing of the water in the bowl and cleaning the now empty jar. 

He’ll need to find more Silver Bindweed or something similar and soon, he thinks while he washes. Spring was on the horizon but the cold wasn’t lifting and his gut was telling him that wasn’t going to change any time soon. The days were only growing colder and darker and things were already beginning to take a turn for the worst amongst the village; more accidents as the weather worsened, tempers fraying and moods going bleak the longer the sun stayed hidden behind the clouds. 

His stores of ingredients were dwindling with the rising demand and healing wasn’t something he was capable of with only his hands and his blood. 

Keith lays out a cloth and sits the jar on it upside-down to dry. 

He’d have to go back out, but not today. Today he rests and tomorrow he prepares. Then he’ll head out at first light and he’ll make sure he’s back before the sunk sinks behind the mountain. 

xXx

The third day comes softly.

He wakes with the dawn feeling rested. He stretches in bed, spine cracking and popping as he shifts about under the covers. He flops over onto his back and raises his hand to look at his palm; the redness has faded and when he clenches it there’s no ache to be found. 

The faint early morning light spills in through his window and when he sits up and tugs back the sheets he takes a moment to inspect his ankle. The bruising has faded to the faintest hint of yellow and there’s no swelling to be seen. He flexes his toes and there’s no pain and when he gets up, he tentatively shifts his weight and is satisfied when there’s only the faintest twinge. 

He gets dressed quickly—thick knee length boots and his shirt with the red stitching around the sleeves and collar, a red so dark it’s almost lost against the black. He tugs on his belt and checks the fastenings on his blade and then pulls on his cloak and scarf though he leaves the hood off for now. 

He eats breakfast quickly, tossing another log into the hearth to keep it going while he’s gone. 

He goes around the kitchen table and carefully organises his pack—nuts and meat, a canteen filled with water, a few jars and tins and three thick vials filled with some of the water from the pitcher. He shrugs on the pack, adjusting the straps and then tags on his gloves and he’s off. 

Outside the world is quiet and still, everything covered in a blanket of white. Luckily it hadn’t snowed the previous night and it was easy going as he left the security of his garden and headed off across the field. 

Snow and brittle grass crunches under his feet as he goes, every sound seeming to echo in the wide open space. The forest looms before him, closer and closer as his long strides eat up the distance. 

Stepping under their boughs is like stepping into a different world. All at once the light changes, becoming dappled and weak under the canopy. This close to the edge there’s room to walk and just enough light that the atmosphere isn’t suffocating but it feels enclosed nonetheless. 

Twigs snap under his feet as he continues onwards. The snow cover is sparse but the ground still feels solid and unyielding beneath his feet, like its frozen solid. 

Every once in a while there’s the faintest sound of bird song amongst the trees; it sounds tentative, unsure of its welcome amongst the oppressive feel of the forest. He catches the flitter of movement in the corner of his eyes as he walks along, small birds or other things that watch him as he goes. Whatever they are they don’t come near him, perhaps sensing the fire running through his veins or warded off by the red thread stitched into his clothes or the iron water he carries in his pack. 

It’s an easy walk though this part of the forest and he enjoys it while he can. Everything about him still feels old but it doesn’t carry the same malevolence that the deeper parts do—or no, not malevolence—it’s not evil despite what many of the villagers think. But it is most certainly _Other._ The forest itself, the trees and the plants and even most of the creatures that called it home weren’t malicious but wild. 

Of course, he thinks to himself as he slows to a stop, that can’t be said of all the things walking beneath the trees.

The tracks lead off to the east of him. 

They’re barely there in the frozen ground but he can make out the size and the general shape by the few indents he can spot—large and canid. Keith crouches down beside the clearest print he can spot and presses a finger around the edge, tracing the impression made pads and the tips of claws.

“A wolf?” he says to himself, questioning.

It certainly looks like one. He’s seen wolves in this forest before, has even tracked them on occasion out of pure curiosity. But these tracks aren’t like any other he’s seen. 

Whatever made them was large, far larger than any wolf he knows of making its home in Daibazaal. The shape was ever so slightly off as well, the indents left by the claws deeper and toes just ever so slightly longer than normal.

Keith swallows. 

He could follow. There’s no guarantee that he’d even find anything, for all he knows the track ends just over the next ridge, lost to hard ground or any number of things. Curiosity was gnawing lightly at his gut, the urge to see—to know—whispering at the edges of him. 

But he was out in the woods for a reason and it was an important one.

Reluctantly, Keith turns away from the tracks and continues onwards. 

He follows the gentle rise of the earth, letting his feet guide him as they wish, until the ground beneath him turns to stone. When he looks up, he’s standing almost at the crest of a hill, bare of anything but scrub and weeds that have managed to get a purchase in the cracks between rocks. 

He walks to the top and looks around. Trees still mostly block his vision of the surrounding forest but its clearer up here. Light filters down like it so rarely does in Daibazaal, unencumbered by the thick twist of branches that smother it elsewhere. 

Sunlight and moonlight. 

He goes over the hill carefully, looking in the cracks between rocks and amongst the scrub. He’s never seen Bindweed grow without something to wrap itself around but he’s never seen it grow somewhere moonlight doesn’t touch either. 

He finds a patch of Blue Jade moss growing on the leeward side of a boulder and carefully scrapes off a section into a jar. Under a patch of dried scrub he finds a single Ash-wood bulb and he digs it out of the shallow soil with careful fingers—he has an open pot on the porch filled with soil taken from Daibazaal, he can plant it when he gets home. 

He goes over every nook and cranny but finds no sign of the Bindweed anywhere which, while not surprising, is still disheartening. 

Keith sighs, dusting his hands off and rising to his feet. “Would’ve been too good to be true.”

Keith shoulders his pack again, listening to the soft sounds of glass clinking against glass as the contents shifted. Looking up he tracks the position of the sun as best he can with it hidden behind the clouds and guesses that he’s been out for maybe an hour or two. Midday is still far enough away that he’ll have plenty of time to look further afield and get back if he moves swiftly enough. Rolling his ankle absently, Keith looks down into the dark line of fir trees, waiting solemnly for him in the soft light and is struck dumb by the sight of grey eyes looking back.

He blinks and they’re gone like they were never there at all. 

Swallowing, Keith makes his way down the hill.

In his head he can hear Hunk’s voice, scolding him for heading straight towards where…whatever it was had been. But Keith trusts his instincts when amongst the trees and he hadn’t felt the faintest prickling of alarm while working and he’s never that absorbed in a task while out of his home. Whatever it was probably wasn’t malicious and Keith was, more often than was probably recommended, curious about the things in Daibazaal. 

Small rocks and pebbles dislodge under his feet and he climbs his way down the other side of the hill. The light dims as he gets closer to the tree line and the air cools noticeably enough that he tugs his scarf up higher and tighter.

He can still hear the faintest strains of birdsong in the trees about him and that more than anything else reassures him. 

He lands at the bottom of the hill, roughly where he saw the eyes and looks about for any signs of what it had been.

The prints are fairly easy to spot, almost like they were placed in the perfect position for him to see.

They’re the same as the ones from earlier, the strange not-quite wolf tracks. They come to the hill and then turn away, back amongst the trees, disappearing like a ghost a few feet in. 

“Sneaky,” Keith mutters.

A foot beyond where the tracks end there’s a stone sunken into the ground and beyond that, a snapped twig about chest height on Keith. When he gets closer to it, he sees the faintest strands of fur caught in the break.

They drift gently in the breeze, pure white. He reaches out with a hand and grabs them, running them between his fingers.

The fur feels like rough spun silk.

“Huh.” Keith holds them up to his eyes, watches the way they seem to glow in the low light and then lets them drift off with the wind.

When he looks around for more signs of the creature, there’s nothing and he circles right back around to the broken twig.

Sniffing, Keith shrugs eventually. “Fine then, keep your secrets.” Clearly, there was no use trying to find it when it didn’t want to be found. Some of the creatures in there were just like that. 

He picks up where he left off, following his feet through the woods. Every now and then he swears he sees something white in the corner of his eye but after the third time he stops trying to spot it. 

There were plenty of other things he should be looking out for instead. An hour later he hits the divide within the forest. Like always it seemingly comes from nowhere and between one step and the next, the lighting changes and the air becomes dense, heavy with the scent of age. The scarce birdsong dims until it’s gone and is instead replaced by the sensation of soundless wings and the occasional voiceless whisper at the edge of his hearing.

He keeps his hand on his blade as he walks.

Somewhere above the canopy the sun still shines, though weak and watery. That alone would be enough to offer him some protection against the things that make the darker parts of the woods home but in Daibazaal, it paid to be careful. 

As he wanders further in, he realises that he’s lost his silent companion. There’s no flashes of white following him, just the endless shadows that he’s familiar with and he doesn’t know whether he’s disappointed or relieved.

After a while he puts it out of his mind.

The sun moves across the sky above him, bringing him ever closer to midday and the moment he needs to leave. Around him the forest is quiet, though not silent, and sometimes he catches small fingers watching him from behind trees or up amongst the branches. Yellow eyes gleam from within shadows but he keeps his head up and continues walking. Most of the time they left you alone if you didn’t bother them.

He stumbles across the fallen tree just as the sun hits it zenith in the sky. 

It’s old and covered in lichen and moss. Snow dusts it and the small clearing its collapse had formed, obscuring part of the ground. Despite the snow, the clearing still smells like wet rotting things, organic and slightly sweet. There’s a tiny sapling somehow still growing from where its sheltered by the bulk of the tree and he brushes a finger across its sickly looking leaves. 

He walks around to the other side of the log, careful where he places his feet. The ground is soft and spongy despite the snow, and there’s hunks of rotted wood laying scattered about where it’s sloughed off from the trunk.

On the other side of the tree is a vine.

It grows, adhered to the old bark and around one of the broken off branches jutting from its side. Pale green leaves shiver in the wind, looking frail and delicate and a single wilting, silver flower casts it face towards the sky.

Keith drops his back and pulls out a jar. 

The Bindweed looks old and half dead and he wonders if its the soil or the frost or something else thats causing it to wilt. He can spot the places where other flowers had been, the slick brown petals hanging limp on their stems. 

He reaches for the trumpet shaped flower and, holding the jar below it, bends it over the opening. 

He holds it there for a second and then another and finally a drop of liquid drips into the jar. He stays like that for a few minutes, tapping on the flower gently to encourage any more of the liquid nectar to flow into the jar but eventually he’s forced to give up when it becomes clear that the few drops are all he’s going to get.

He lets the flower spring back into place and screws the lid back on tight. 

Instinctually, he knows that's all he’s going to get today. Midday had come and was quickly going and he needed the remaining hours of light to get back through the forest. 

He packs up quickly, taking care to wrap the jars in cloth before he sets off back the way he came. 

Dead wood snaps under the soles of his boots, frost bitten shrub crackling and popping as he goes. He pushes branches out of his way, dodging them as they snap back with intent. Barely any time has passed but he can already feel the way things are watching him, following him. The light was quickly changing from a thin grey to a thicker grey and he was already being forced to wind through the trees as the forest grew sporadically denser here and there. 

Areas he’d walked through an hour earlier were already looking different as things shifted about. 

He’s not worried yet. There’s a faint sense of unease but thats normal in this part of the woods, expected even. 

Keith slips through a gap in the bracken and around a dense cluster of willow trees and the sight hits him like a punch to the face. The dead thing was sprawled between two trees, facing him, though it takes a few seconds for him to make sense of what he’s seeing. 

The skull is cracked and shattered in parts, its antlers laying broken beside it but not attached. He could see the glint of a large ribcage through the mess, rent open like it had been hit by one forceful stroke. There’s a wetness to the elks fur that has nothing to do with blood. Against his better judgement, Keith creeps forward to get a better look. Bits of the fur and bone look stained, like they’d been dipped into ink. The ground around the carcass looks black as well.

Around him, the forest is _silent._

Keith backs away slowly and then he’s moving away from the trees and the body far quicker than he approached it, taking care to muffle his steps as much as possible.

There was no smell. No smell and no flies hovering about the kill. 

Whatever had killed it, had done it recently and he hadn’t heard a thing.

xXx

He makes it to the forest's edge without incident. 

He steps out into the field and looks up at the open sky and closes his eyes, basking for a second in the freely moving wind and the weak sunlight.

Then he thinks better of lingering and hurries off across the open space towards the safety of his home. 

He’s halfway across the field when he becomes aware of the sensation of being watched. The hairs on the backs of his neck rise and it spills over him like a wave. He’s turning before its a conscious thought, eyes chasing the feeling but it's gone as swiftly as it had come.

He scans the trees behind him but there’s no strange shadows or shapes. He walks backwards, unwilling to look away just in case—

Well. Just in case something followed him. 

He makes it to his gate unharmed though thoroughly unnerved and turns to unlatch it and as he does so, a shape out on the field moves.

He freezes, watching from the corner of his eye as a mass of white picks itself up from the ground and ambles away, back towards the forest.

xXx

The fire inside was still going, crackling merrily in greeting as the breeze blew in with him.

Keith shuts the door behind him with a thud, throwing the locks into place and begins to divest himself of his outerwear and boots. He leaves them, melting slush and all and carries his bag over to the table with his few hard won prizes.

The moss goes onto his shelf and he leaves the jar of nectar in its little nest of cloth scraps. Then he grabs the bulb out of his pack and sets it on the table and sinks down into a chair to stare at it. 

He could plant it tomorrow. Should plant it tomorrow.

The pot was already prepared and it wouldn’t take much to grow it out of season if he moves it inside the house where it wouldn’t feel the cold and Ash-wood has always liked him. There were other things he should do as well, small things that needed to be tended about the garden since the winter looks like it wasn’t going to be dying off any time soon. 

The aconite and bluebells should be coaxed into a longer sleep so they don’t die from the frost and he needs to renew the heating wards around his vegetable patch.

As he sat there, Keith went through a mental list of chores to be done and very carefully didn’t think about the inevitability of going back into the forest.


	2. Tithe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apart from the howling wind and the creaking trees, it’s quiet. The few birds that remain in the valley have gone to ground and he hasn’t heard the faintest rustle from the small animals that usually live in and around the safety of his garden.

Keith didn’t exactly enjoy gardening but he certainly didn’t hate it. 

It was a necessity and so was folded in with the relative monotony of similar tasks like washing clothes and cooking.

Gardening in winter however, was a special kind of evil.

The pot with the Ash-wood bulb in it was sitting at the cottages’ front window, the new blood inscribed runes slowly drying to a dark rust along the rim of it. If all went well it would take a few days to germinate with the tiny slip of his power prodding it along and he’d hopefully be down one less rare ingredient he needed to find.

Now though, his hands were cold and chapped by the strong wind which whipped across the field and howled through the trees. Even in his garden he can hear the forest creak and groan, a strange song drifting through the air. The wind kicks up powdered snow and tosses it about and whenever he squints out at the field, he sees shapes dancing through it, white and sinuous. 

Most, he suspects are nothing—mere tricks of the light. Others however, move against the wind.

He’s already coaxed most of the semi-wild plants into a deeper sleep and all that’s left is the small vegetable patch that Hunk covets. Surrounded by a careful ring of hand chiseled stones, the plants within are green and vibrant and stand untouched by the wind and snow. 

He’s on his knees, working his way along the stones. His legs hurt from the cold hard ground and the back of his left wrist stings where he keeps having to reopen the cut as he repaints the runes seared into the rock.

As he goes around, he feels the way the warmth within the circle rises and then stop at the perfect temperature, the slowly forming chill that had begun to permeate the patch banished with the flush of his magic.

Apart from the howling wind and the creaking trees, it’s quiet. The few birds that remain in the valley have gone to ground and he hasn’t heard the faintest rustle from the small animals that usually live in and around the safety of his garden.

Keith sits up, brushing a few strands of hair from his face where they’ve escaped his braid and looks up into the face of a wolf.

It sits just beyond the other side of his fence, watching him curiously. Its white fur ruffles in the wind, grey eyes fixed on his hands. It doesn’t move when he flinches in surprise—just continues to rest in perfect stillness.

Slowly, Keith lowers his hands.

It’s close enough that he can pick out certain details—the curving scar over its muzzle and the smattering of others throughout its fur. Its fangs are large, curved daggers in its mouth, and he’d been right that its paws are ever so slightly misshapen.

Keith has seen many wolves and this is no wolf.

It’s too large for one. Even seated its head clears the fence; if it were standing he’s sure it would be tall enough to ride. 

And its eyes…no animal has eyes like that. Not the natural ones at least. 

Keith shifts on his knees slowly until he’s in a more comfortable position and the wolf cocks its head.

Keith clears his throat and watches as the wolf's ears prick. “Hello, Traveller,” he rasps out.

His voice is almost lost in the wind but he knows it hears him regardless when he spots an ear flick.

He waits a moment for…something, though he doesn’t know what, but when no other reaction seems forthcoming he forces himself to find his voice again.

“You aren’t from this valley or this forest, are you?” he asks.

Again, there’s no reply.

Keith tries again, fingers pressing together where he has them clenched against his thighs. 

“Why are you here?” he asks. Then, “Are you from the mountains?”

The wolf stares and then huffs, shaking its great head. Flakes of snow are sent into the air and before Keith can try asking something else, it stands. Keith’s breath catches in his chest as he looks up at its full height.

He was right, he thinks to himself. It’s absolutely big enough to ride. 

The wolf shakes itself again and then yawns, flashing its fangs and black gums before it turns and trots off into the field. 

Keith watches it go, heart beating a staccato against his rib cage. 

Wetting his lips, he winces as he licks over a bleeding crack. With a shake of his head he turns his back to the field and the wolf and continues his work.

xXx

Keith wakes with a jolt from a sleep he never meant to have. 

The fire is burning low in the hearth, warm against his skin where he’d fallen asleep on the old rug before it. Outside the window there was a looming blackness, the slowly waning moon hidden behind a veil. He couldn’t see anything through the glass, just the reflection of the shifting light from the fire. 

He doesn’t know what woke him. 

He sits up, the nest of blankets he’d fallen asleep in tumbling around him, and walks to the window. 

With a breath the fire shrinks down to coals and slowly his eyes adjust to the outside. He still can’t see much, just the vague impression of shapes in the gloom.

As he goes to turn away he hears it, rising over the wind; a ghostly howl, deeper than the wolves he knows from the forest. 

It’s the white wolf. He knows it like he knows the direction the sun will rise from, the phases of the moon. He waits quietly, listening for an answering call but the howl merely echoes on into silence. Minutes pass before he hears it howl again, and he wonders if he’s hearing things when he thinks that it sounds lonely. 

Behind him the fire grows and Keith turns away from the window.

xXx

The weather stays constant for the next few days, driving the world into a forced stillness. The snow grows deep and the forest is a grey blur in the distance that he can only see in the breaths between the wind. 

Keith stays inside mostly. He tends to his Ash-wood and the first shoots of deep green begin to poke their way out of the soil in its pot. He re-labels his jars, his spidery script running loose over the parchment and he organises the mess in the attic for the nth time. 

Occasionally he braves the cold to check on his garden. The fresh runes around his vegetables hold strong and steady in defiance of the biting elements. The wild plants growing in his garden remain dormant but alive despite how deep winter is sinking its claws into the land which is more than he hoped for. 

Sometimes he thinks he sees the wolf. 

It moves like a ghost through the snow and wind, there and gone again like a mirage. He thinks it’s watching him, at least perhaps some of the time. Other times he spots its quickly vanishing tracks laying just beyond his fence and he wonders. 

He finds the deer on the fifth day. 

There’s a lull in the snow the biting wind and Keith takes the chance to walk his fence line, checking the wards for fading or breaks in the Rowen wood. It should be fine, he checked it less than three months prior but there’s a feeling in his bones that's had him going over any and all protection spells he knows. 

He starts in the east by the gnarled plum tree. Its bare branches shiver in the wind like it's waving to him and he spares a second to run his hand over the dark bark. 

He walks the line around his property, hand trailing along frost lined wood. He has to fight his way through the buildup of snow that's collected in his garden but he manages. It takes twenty minutes for him to walk from the east side to the west, checking for weak points as he goes and he’s so absorbed in his task that he doesn’t notice it at first. 

The dead deer is laying just outside his gate. 

It’s not buried beneath snow so even without touching it, Keith knows it’s fresh—too fresh. The only thing that stops him panicking at the sight is the fact that the deer is nearly whole—it’s not torn apart like the elk in the woods, skull cracked and horns splintered. Instead there’s a neat ring of teeth marks about the neck and shoulders, like it had been grabbed there and dragged or carried right to his door.

Which, Keith reflects, might actually be what’s happened.

There are faint tracks around the body, ones which are now growing so very familiar. Not really expecting anything, Keith looks up and around at the white washed world about him and, laying about halfway between his gate and the woods is the wolf.

It’s watching him, huge head laying on its forepaws. Against the snow, it’s almost invisible but Keith can still see those eyes, shining back at him. 

Keith doesn’t move. For a minute or an eternity he just stands there, one hand on the gate and even at this distance he can see the rise and fall of the wolfs back as it huffs, ears flicking. Slowly, almost like its judging his reaction, it tips over onto its side, sending powdered snow flying up into the air and just lays there.

He can still feel its eyes on him but once again, nothing about it strikes Keith as malicious. 

Cautiously, Keith’s hand drifts to the latch.

“Is this for me,” he calls out.

He watches as its ears prick up sharply at the sound but otherwise it doesn’t move. Keith looks down at the deer, rapidly becoming covered as the wind begins to pick up once again and makes a decision. He unlatches his gate and steps out, stopping just at the tips of his boots brush the deers fur.

He crouches down and brushes a hand over its flank sending the small buildup of snow tumbling to the ground. There’s a fair amount of meat on it for the season and Keith can’t help but imagine the meals he could make with it, the uses he could find for the pelt and the antlers and the bones. 

Keith grunts lightly as he slings it up and over his shoulder. Hooves and antlers clack awkwardly against his back but it’s not heavy enough to be a bother. Holding it securely, Keith bows shallowly at the wolf.

“Thank you.” 

It’s ears flick in his direction and as he watches, it rises to its feet. In dead silence it glances at him once and then stretches, before turning and walking back off into the woods.

xXx

The offerings become more and more frequent. Never more than once every two days but after two weeks of being stuck inside by the snow and wind not once has three days passed without something being left at the gate to his garden. 

The deer was the largest and for that Keith is grateful. Instead it’s a parade of small things—fowl, rabbit and once a young boar, smaller than any of the giants he often spies in the lumbering about the woods. 

He uses what he can; makes stews and broths with the meat and bones, collects fur to line another coat he’s slowly making. Some meat he cures and tucks away safely, fully intending to offload some of it onto Hunk when it's safe to make the trip into town along with a selection of vegetables that are almost ready to be picked. 

He hears the wolf every night now, howling in the dark like it's calling for someone. 

He never hears a reply. 

xXx

The snow breaks the day after he wakes to find a chicken of all things laying at his gate. Its feathers are bloody and he can see the typical ring of teeth marks but otherwise it's whole and intact. 

He takes it back inside and plucks it, keeping the feathers and the feet and then tucks it, a rabbit and the leg of the boar into a wicker basket he’d woven last spring. He tucks everything in nicely and then covers the meat with cloth and finally he places a selection of freshly picked vegetables on top. 

He ties the basket closed with a ribbon, white and yellow, and throws on his coat before winding his ever present red scarf loosely around his neck. He pauses at his door, giving himself a moment to remember anything he might have forgotten before he heads off towards the village for the first time in weeks. 

The air is sharp but it’s clear. Everything glimmers and he sees rime clinging to the bare bushes growing along the path. It looks beautiful, he admits to himself, in that uneasy way winter always does—cold and glittering and empty. He moves quicker than he had the last time he made the trip and arrives at Hunks just as he begins to hear the rest of the village coming alive. 

The smell of bread wafts from an open window and Keith cant help but pick up the pace, sidling up to the front door and rapping sharply at the heavy wood. 

He hears a clattering from inside and rocks back on his heels as he waits. On a whim he happens to look up and is gratified to see a solid looking horseshoe nailed above the doorway. 

There’s a click and Keith’s eyes snap back to door in time to watch Hunk swing it open. 

“Keith!” Hunk’s face breaks out in a wide smile and he practically hauls Keith inside. “I was wondering if you were still alive.”

“I am,” Keith says, letting Hunk guide him to the kitchen. A fat yellow cat meows at him from its spot on the table. “Hello Buttercup.”

Buttercup stretches, fluffy tail swishing, and she jumps down to wind about his legs. He passes off the basket to Hunk and crouches, hands held out for her to rub against. He rocks back until he’s sitting on the floor, letting Buttercup crawl into his lap and surrenders himself to aggressive affection. 

The basket thudding onto the table has him looking up. Hunk’s tugging the yellow ribbon away with careful hands, tucking it away into his pocket. He flips open the lids and gasps, eyes going misty. 

“Keith,” he says, pulling out an eggplant, “you shouldn’t have.”

“Okay,” Keith says, shrugging casually. “Just leave it in the basket and i’ll take it back.”

Hunk clutches it to his chest. “Absolutely not, they’re mine now.”

Keith grins, scratching under Buttercups’ chin. “Good. There’s some more stuff under the vegetables too.”

Hunk lifts all the vegetables out, placing them on the bench top. Keith stands with Buttercup in his arms and sits down on the chair Hunk kicks gently towards him. He strokes her as he watches Hunks eyebrows jump into his hairline. 

“Where’d you get this meat from?” He pulls out the wrapped boar leg, weighing it in his hands. “The trappers have been coming back empty handed for the last month or so.”

“I didn’t,” Keith says absently, watching the way Hunks arm flex as he hefts the meat out of the basket. 

Hunk turns, frowning. “What do you mean ‘you didn't’?”

Keith shrugs. 

Hunk washes his hands and flicks a droplet at him before drying them on a worn towel. “Stop being obtuse,” he orders while Keith wipes his face on his sleeve, cat fussing in his arms. 

Keith huffs, opening his mouth to explain and then stalls when he realises he doesn’t know how. Hunk must see it on his face because he sniffs and grabs the dough he’d been kneading before Keith had arrived. He divides it in two, points at the sink and Keith obediently sits Buttercup on his chair and goes to wash his hands. 

He joins Hunk at the table, taking his half of the dough and falls into the motions of kneading it to Hunks specifications. 

They work together in silence for a moment and it's soothing in its familiarity. He feels better having his hands occupied and an excuse to not to look at Hunk while he talks. 

“A few weeks ago I found something new in the forest,” he begins. 

“You mean that thing you warned me about? The one that attacked you!?” There’s alarm in Hunks voice and Keith shakes his head. 

“No,” he says quickly. “No, after that, when I went back in. There were tracks I’ve never seen before.”

“Tracks from what?”

“A wolf,” Keith says quietly. He stretches the dough and rolls it back, rocking into the motion. “Big—bigger than anything natural.”

“Okay,” Hunk says slowly. “A big wolf. Cool. What does that _mean?_ ”

Keith shrugs again. “No idea. It doesn't seem to want to cause me any harm though,” he says in an attempt at assuaging the worry he can see on his friends face. 

“And it what? Brought you gifts?”

“Pretty much.” Keith blows a strand of hair out of his eyes and begins to shape the dough into a ball. “It left something every few days; first was a whole deer.”

Hunk makes a sound. “And you’re sure it wasn’t just—leaving its own food there to come back to it later? What if you’ve just made it angry by stealing it’s food?”

Keith dusts his hands off. “Well, considering it was waiting for me to find the first one and then watched me take it without trying to maul me, I think I’m fine.” 

Hunk huffs, setting his own dough off to the side. “I guess that's fair,” he says. “You said it was big?”

Keith nods. 

“How big, exactly?” Hunk asks tentatively, washing the flour off his hands.

“Big enough that I could ride it if I wanted to,” Keith says, eyeing Hunk. “Maybe about chest height on you?”

Hunk swallows. “Oh, wow okay that’s—that’s big. Definitely not a normal wolf.”

“Nope.” Keith goes to wash his own hands. “Even more than just its size, it’s quiet too. I almost never notice it until it’s there, you know? And its eyes...” Keith drifts off. 

Hunk eyes him curiously. “What about its eyes?”

“They’re not animal eyes,” Keith says slowly, a thought or something niggling at him but remaining just out of reach. “There's too much in them.”

“What do you mean, too much?”

“Just—too much.” Keith splays his hands, unsure of how else to say it. “When I look at them, there’s more in them then there is in an animal.”

There’s a meow and Buttercup is suddenly pushing in between them, paws leaving perfect little tracks in the dusting of flour across the table. 

“Sorry, Buttercup,” Keith says solemnly. “There’s a lot in your eyes too.”

Hunk laughs and like that the tension dissipates like mist under warm sun. Hunk runs his large hands through Buttercup's fur, scratching as he goes and a loud rumble kicks up under his ministrations. After a while he sighs and fixes Keith with his gaze. 

“Listen, if you say it's fine then it's probably fine. I don't know anything about the things in that forest, not like you do and I’m not going to try and pretend otherwise. But Keith?” He waits until Keith looks up at him to continue. “You’ll be cautious right? Try and stay safe?”

Keith nods. “Of course.”

Hunk sighs with relief. “Good, that's good. And hey, I know you hate being in the Village but if anything happens, you know I have a spare room for you if you need it.”

“I know Hunk.” Keith smiles softly, hand reaching out to scritch behind Buttercup's ears. “I appreciate it.”

They stay like that for a while, Hunk cooing at Buttercup while he cleans. Keith knows better than trying to help so he goes back to his chair and tries in vain to brush the flour from her paws. 

The sun is firmly in the sky by the time he leaves, albeit hidden behind a thin veil of clouds. Keith stands in the doorway, neck prickling under the sun, as Buttercup rubs at his shins. Hunk comes over and hands him back his basket. 

Keith takes it and quirks an eyebrow up at the weight. 

Hunk raises his hands defensively. “It's just a loaf of bread. You brought me extras with the meat and you helped me work some dough so don’t even try handing it back to me.”

Keith huffs out a laugh. “Okay, Hunk.” He tugs the basket into the crook of his arm and the smell of fresh bread wafts over him. “Thank you.”

Hunk waves him off. “It's not a problem, seriously. Also I was looking into getting you glass for your attic window but travel is bad between here and the next village; the snow’s really made it dangerous apparently. I don't think I can get anything until the weather clears up properly.”

Keith shakes his head. “That's about what I was expecting, it's fine.”

Hunk frowns, nose scrunching. “This winter is really getting bad Keith. The weather should be turning for the better but every time I head to the smithy, I have to walk through more and more snow. It’s not natural.”

“You might be right about that,” Keith murmurs, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“What?” Hunk asks, head cocked in confusion. 

Keith sighs. “I don't know,” he says. “It’s probably nothing.”

Hunk eyes him and then shrugs, arms scooping Keith into a solid hug. Just before the urge to squirm away kicks in, Hunk releases him with a soft thump to the shoulder. 

“Take care, Keith,” he says, taking a step back into his home. 

Keith nods. “Always. You too, Hunk.”

The door swings shut with a quiet click and Keith turns to head off. There’s people on the streets now and Keith thanks his stars that Hunk lives as close to the edge of the village as he works. 

He puts the people to his back and sets off, heading back down the path that leads to home. 

He’s just passing the smithy when he realises that the prickling sensation at the back of his neck isn’t from the sun nor going away. He hears the footsteps first, three sets, all loud and heavy, and then there’s the loud and purposeful cough of someone trying to get someone else’s attention. 

Keith ignores it and continues walking, praying to whatever deity listening that whoever it is takes the hint and leaves him be. 

Instead there’s another loud cough and then a mutter, something low and dark, and finally a loud call of _“Witch!”_

Keith slows to a stop, forcibly smoothing out the reflexive snarl on this face. He turns. 

“Head Sanda,” he says with barely a shallow nod. “What can I do for you?”

The Village Head fixes him with flinty eyes. “Witch,” she says again, dragging the word out. 

Keith’s grip flexes on his basket. They always say it like a curse. 

“We have need of you,” she says eventually. Her two men shift nervously behind her, hands on their weapons. 

“Have need of me how, exactly?” Keith questions. 

Her lips tighten. “My son in law need your attention—”

Keith interrupts her. “Has he taken a turn for the worse?” He watches as she sniffs, jaw clenching and he resists the urge to sigh. “Your son in law is on the mend, Head Sanda. You have an entire jar of salve which should dull the pain down to nothing. Unless of course, you’ve somehow managed to misplace it? Because I made sure there was enough to last for more than a month when I made it.”

She says nothing but the mulish look on her face only deepens. 

He does sigh this time. “If the pain is being managed then there’s nothing else to be done. He will heal in time; there’s nothing to do but let it happen.”

She scoffs. “There are things that can be done to heal an injury like his, don’t try and tell me otherwise. Why have they not been done already?”

Keith shifts his grip and his weight. “There are limits to what should be done. To what _I_ can do. It's always better to let an injury like that heal naturally where possible; the bones grow stronger and there’s far less scarring.”

“But it can be done,” she asks pointedly. 

Keith grits his teeth. “Yes,” he says slowly. “It can be.”

“Then you will do it,” she says. Her voice is final. 

Keith breathes out. “And if I can’t?”

“Then I question why you’re here.” Her eyes are hard as diamonds, face impassive but the men at her shoulders are gripping tight at their blades. 

She smiles at him. “You are here to serve the village,” she says. “So serve the village.”

xXx

Keith feels cold in a way that has nothing to do with the weather as he watches Sanda and her lackeys leave. 

His chest is full of ice but his hands burn where he has them tucked under his cloak, blood sparking in his veins. 

He’s always known that the balance between him and the villagers was fragile at best; they saw him as an unfortunate necessity, living this close to the forest—a requirement that they dearly wished they could live without, Sanda especially.

Slowly, Keith releases the breath sitting tight in his chest and it wisps away into the air like steam. 

He walks because there’s nothing else to do. 

The wicker handle creaks under his grip and his steps are less steps and more of an agitated prowl. Bit by bit, as his strides eat up the distance, the tension leeches out of him leaving him feeling exhausted. 

There wasn't much he could do, was the thing. He could leave, find a different village to offer his services to—perhaps another resting on the boarders of a Deep Wood or another wellspring. 

Keith was under no illusions about his worth; while his personality might leave something to be desired, his Talent was strong enough that he’d be sought after in some places that dealt with more aggressive threats but…he didn't want to. Over the past few years he’s built himself a home; it's not much, ramshackled at best but it's _his._

He could ignore Sanda’s wishes and prove her point to the rest of the villages who think like she does or fight and do the same thing in a different way, but both those options result in the same outcome; being driven from the village with prejudice and possibly Hunk as well. He’s under no illusions that his friend would just stand idly by and watch, no matter how much he hates conflict and then what? 

The two of them will be homeless—and Buttercup too, he amends to himself, kicking a small rock with a low growl. 

It goes flying and clacks off the trunk of a tree, the sound sharp in the quiet stillness. 

Keith stops abruptly, and sinks down onto a log. He thinks about the drops of precious nectar in the jar and the sparse pickings in the forest. 

He’ll have to comply with Sanda’s wishes, at least for now. Tensions were running high in the village with deepening winter and now would be the absolute worst time to spark the bonfire he can feel building every time he steps amongst the houses. 

Maybe in spring when things relax he can try to figure out something better. 

Keith sits the basket at his feet and rests his ams on his knees. He stares at the scrub and trees in front of him, not really seeing it. The clouds drift in the sky, sending shadows drifting across the ground. 

The hairs on his neck stand on end. 

Keith turns slowly. Roughly twenty feet behind him, standing amongst a small copse of trees is the wolf. Its massive, almost maned head is cocked to the side like it's curious. 

Keith stands, squashing the urge to move quickly, and clears his throat. “Hello, friend.”

Its tufted ears swivel at the sound of his voice and, to his surprise, it takes one tiny step towards him. 

“I’m about to head home,” Keith says eventually. The smell of the bread in the basket is beginning to remind him that he hasn’t eaten since noon the day before. “Would you...like to walk with me?” It comes out more hesitant than he’d like and of course there’s no answer. 

He waits a second anyway before nodding his head in its direction and starting to walk. He barely resists the urge to check immediately and only after a solid ten minutes pass in silence does he look to the side. 

The wolf is keeping pace with him through the scrub and it’s closer than it had been—close enough for Keith to see the fresh wound curving over its flank, the white fur around it stained vaguely pink. It doesn’t look like it’s bothering it much, doesn’t appear to be in pain to Keith’s untrained eye but the pang of worry that strikes through his chest is powerful nonetheless. 

They walk together in silence through the sparse trees and field, the lurking bulk of the forest perpetually on their left. Soon Keith’s home comes into view and with it, the end of their walk together. 

Snow crunches under his boots as he walks up to his gate. He grabs it and the pauses, looking behind him. There’s no deer at his feet this time but looking at the wolf, sitting there quietly, the feeling of déjà vu is undeniable. 

After a while the wolf turns to leave and Keith makes to say something—though he doesn't know what—but he’s too slow. 

The wolf melts away into the forest and he’s left standing there, alone. 

xXx

He makes the medicine on a whim. 

It's late, nearing the witching hour and he can still hear the wolf crying out somewhere beyond the tree line. 

The hearth fire is growing low, more coals and embers than actual flames and he sits on the rug in front of it wrapped again in his blanket. 

His knees are tucked up against his chest and he’s playing with a small hole that's worn through the fabric of his pants by his ankle—tugging at a loose thread, rubbing the soft strands between his fingers. It’s mindless and repetitive and his thoughts wander. 

The wolf howls again somewhere in the black and the fire crackles and whispers in its bed of coals. 

He shifts onto his knees to toss a log into the fire and his loose sleeve falls back, revealing the scab over the back of his wrist. It's almost healed, helped along with aloe and the Blue Jade, and he thinks almost absently about the wound the wolf had been carrying. 

He wonders what caused it and how well it's healing. There’s plenty of danger in Daibazaal but he can’t think of much which would be inclined towards attacking a wolf of its size and obvious strength. 

Unbidden the memory of being chased through the woods seeps into his mind. 

Unnerved, Keith stokes the fire higher. 

Try as he might he keeps circling back round to the wolf, tugging at the image like a dog with a bone. When he stands, blanket tucked tight around his shoulders he tells himself he’s just checking. 

When he starts pulling down ingredients he tells himself he’s just looking at the options. 

When he starts mixing them together, using the last of the nectar, he finally admits that what he’s really doing is saying “fuck you” to Sanda while maybe, just maybe, helping out a future friend in the process. 

xXx

Regardless of his intentions, using the last of the nectar does leave him with a problem. 

His promise to Sanda lingers like an unpleasant shade and he knows that even if he can’t find Bindweed, he needs to find _something._

The weather is still mild compared to how it had been so Keith takes advantage and heads off early once again. He takes a few empty jars, the vials of water, his canteen and more than a few strips of dried meat now that he has a surplus in his stores. 

Wrapped in waxed paper, a tiny package rests safely tucked away. 

The forest is quiet but not silent as he enters. The wind whispers through the branches making them shiver in sympathy and there’s the occasional rustle of movement in the underbrush. About half an hour into his search he spots a fox as it darts off into the distance, quiet and fleet footed. 

A short while later he thinks he spots a flash of white but if it's the wolf then it chooses not to show itself. 

Keith shrugs and carries on. 

He gets lucky when he finds a cluster of Frost Aloe poking its way up through the snow and dried leaf mulch. The icy blue flower sways on its tall stem and he digs down to the thick, tough skinned leaves. He cuts off five of them and packs them away, and then spends a few seconds debating with himself about whether it’s worth it to take the flower too. 

In the end he decides to leave it, hoping quietly that it might make finding it again easier should he need to. 

He scours along the fringe of the forest for other useful plants but turns up nothing. Eventually he considers it a lost cause and turns himself north, towards the deeper woods. 

Today there’s no abrupt change, just a slow creeping encasement, like the world was quietly closing in around him. 

The light around him changes in a way that’s become familiar to him after all the time he’s spent wandering these trees. The branches and thorny underbrush don’t seem to be as thick this time, a fact that Keith finds himself grateful for as he picks his way between ancient trees. There are no foxes here but once or twice Keith spots the way a small shadow will disappear between blinks, or the way something will move amongst the canopy, shifting the light below.

He’s been trudging quietly along for almost an hour when he’s suddenly suffused with the feeling that he’s not alone. It's the sensation of having someone in his space—not quite close enough to touch but just within speaking distance. Keith looks up and sees, in the space between the trees ahead of him, a whole cluster of small white figures.

They stand perfectly still in the low light, tiny like children. He blinks and then they’re gone, instead replaced by tiny stunted Birches, thin and pale in the low light. 

Keith gives the small copse of trees a wide berth.

Twenty minutes past the Birches, the woods clear up a bit. Branches and thorns stop tugging at his clothes as he passes and while it's still gloomy, there’s room to breathe. The land under his feet rises and falls in swells and then begins to drop away abruptly. Cautiously, Keith peers over the edge, looking for an easy way across. 

There’s nothing that he can see; it's a steep drop down, roots and rock poking out from the side like the earth had split and upended itself. He’s seen it happen before but only rarely—usually only the trees move, not the earth itself. 

Stepping away he decides to track along the edge for a while, curious to see if it has an end. 

To his left, the tops of the trees reach towards the sky, their bases lost to the murky darkness below. Every now and then he hears the sound of loose dirt and small pebbles cascading down the side and he veers away and into the trees for a bit. 

He stumbles into familiar territory an hour before noon as the trees give way to the outcropping of rock he’d stumbled across weeks before. 

The side he’d seen the wolf from is now a sheer drop instead of a gentle slope but the rest is intact and he takes the chance to sit and rest for a moment. From so high up he could see the way Daibazaal stretches for miles and miles, the largest of the Deep Woods. In the distance, beyond even the vast tree line, is the uneven silhouette of the Blackwood Mountain range. If he twists and cranes his neck, he can see the way it curves, cradling the forest and their valley. 

He’s chewing on a strip of venison, staring off over the trees when he hears the sound of footsteps behind him. Keith spins, hand flashing to his dagger and the wolf stops, silent and still half in the trees. 

This close it looks even bigger. He waits, food laying at his feet where he dropped it in surprise. 

He doesn't know what he expects. So far all their interactions have come at a fair distance, a divide between the two of them. Here though, such lines are blurred. With a deep breath, Keith settles back down onto his stone and pointedly looks back out over the horizon. 

He’s taking a gamble, he knows this as he waits with bated breath. For many fae creatures, the rules that govern the fields and roads change when amongst the woods. A creature that keeps its distance or is even helpful when in human territory might be less so when on its own. 

But minutes pass and there’s no snarl and no teeth and the slight tension bleeds from Keith’s shoulders with a sigh. 

There's a rustle from close by and the sound of dirt and stone shifting underfoot; a deliberate sound in that there was nothing preceding it or after it. 

When Keith looks over again, the wolf is almost close enough to touch. 

It meets his eyes and lowers itself to the ground, shoulders rising and falling with a huff. It seems content to lay there so Keith leaves it be; instead digging through his pack for a new strip of meat. 

He rips off a piece, chewing absently as he thinks about where to go next; he still can’t see an end to the drop off and in Daibazaal that might mean there isn't one, at least not until it wants there to be. 

He decides that he’ll track along it for a bit further before turning back into the trees and heading back towards the forest's edge. After all he’s had more luck there than he has in previous trips. 

The sound of sniffing grabs his attention and pulls it back to the wolf. He looks over and its eyes are fixed on the meat in his hand. 

Keith takes another bite and nudges the strip he dropped earlier closer to the wolf. 

Keith swallows his mouthful. “You can have it, if you want,” he says. “It’s from the deer you brought me.”

The wolf's ears flicker and it looks between him and the meat. Keith kicks it a bit further. 

In a flash, huge jaws snap shut around it. Keith swallows around nothing as the meat disappears into a mouth large enough to bite him in two if it wanted. Lucky for him, it doesn’t. 

As soon as the wolf finishes, its great grey eyes fix on the strip still in his hand, mouth hanging open enough that he catches flashes of white bone and black gums. Keith wonders if he’s broken that the sight doesn’t make him nervous. 

“No, this one's mine.” Keith takes another bite and almost chokes on it when the wolf whines pathetically and tips onto its side with a huff. It scoots itself just a fraction closer and stares up at him balefully and Keith almost laughs. The last dregs of the fear and uncertainty he’d still been holding onto disappear in the face of the wolf acting like a puppy. And maybe that’s a foolish thing, but he can’t find it within himself to question it. 

“That's what you get for giving me everything you catch,” he tells it. He rips off another chunk and when that elicits another sad sounding whine, Keith sighs dramatically and tosses the wolf the rest. 

His aim is true and it bounces off its face and the wolf jolts upright, huge paws scrambling at the ground. It levels him with an offended look before snapping up the leftovers. 

Keith shifts himself higher and crosses his legs. Below him the wolf settles back down into a sprawl, tail swishing lightly in a way that reminds him oddly of Buttercup. The sun breaks through the cloud just enough that the shadows shrink. Like this, Keith can see the new scar peeking out between its fur. 

“You heal quickly, don’t you,” Keith murmurs, leaning forward to get a better look. 

It yawns again, seemingly content to ignore his scrutiny in favour of dozing in the weak sunlight. Keith shuffles forward a little bit on his rock, squinting at the healed wound. Yesterday it had been fresh, fur still discoloured from the blood but now the skin is pink and new but completely healed over. It settles something anxious in his chest, the tight knot that had formed while standing at his gate, watching the wolf walk away.

Below him the wolf stretches and then rolls, paws to the sky and belly exposed—more than just its belly really, Keith think’s with a snort.

“Well at least I know you’re a ‘he’ now.”

The wolf opens one of its— _his_ great grey eyes and Keith can’t decide if his expression is affronted or just vaguely annoyed. Either way, it's enough to make Keith laugh this time. It rips its way out of his chest like a shot, echoing out amongst the trees. The look the wolf gives him then is so achingly human, something bordering on begrudging amusement, that it just makes him laugh harder.

Eventually he manages to get himself under control. His ribs hurt and his cheeks ache slightly but he can’t quite wipe the grin from his lips. Pointedly, the wolf growls halfheartedly and then rolls onto his side again and closes his eyes. 

Above them the clouds continue to drift. Keith sits there in content silence, the quiet only broken by the soft, deep breaths of the wolf. Keith takes a deep breath, and then another when he catches the faintest hint of rot in the air. The wolf startles when Keith stands atop his rock suddenly but Keith hardly notices; instead he’s busy scanning the surrounding brush. 

The forest beyond the fall darkens as he watches. The tree tops are lit by the dull sun but the shadows below them deepen like a wave is rolling through it, slow and inexorable. It spreads until it hits the sudden rise of earth and when Keith looks down, the murk has shifted into something _deeper._

The wolf growls beside him, startling him. 

He’s standing, facing the woods behind them, the fur along his shoulders and neck bristling. Keith turns slowly, hand drifting towards his knife. 

Staring at them from the trees are small white faces, the same ones he’d seen earlier. They stand perfectly motionless, tiny hands with too long fingers clutching at the trunks of trees. Their skin is rough looking like bark—almost flaking in places. Keith thinks they’re watching the two of them but it’s difficult to tell when there are no eyes within the deep sockets. 

The wolf’s snarl ratchets up a notch and his muscles bunch like he’s about to spring.

“Wait,” Keith snaps, and to his surprise the wolf freezes.

Keith slides down from the rock, deliberately lifting his hand from his blade. 

Sweat cools on the back of his neck, and a chill runs down his spine. “Why are you here?”

At first there’s no answer; they just continue to stare and stare. But then, so slowly he almost doesn’t realise it's happening, one of the Birch Folk raises it’s hand. The limb cracks as it moves, like a branch being bent out of shape, but it doesn’t stop until it’s pointing behind Keith.

The shiver comes back.

Hesitantly, Keith looks over his shoulder and sees the wolf do the same. Stretching out before them, the forest looks even darker than it had before, like a gaping pit. The trees have become blurry and indistinct, like a sudden fog had rolled in with the dark and suddenly he knows; whatever _it_ is was down there somewhere, watching them.

There’s the whisper of movement and when Keith looks back, the Birches are gone; vanished like they were never there

“Okay,” Keith announces after a moment, “It’s time to move.”

Keith slings the pack firmly onto his shoulders but not before taking one of the water-filled vials out and slipping it into a pocket. With luck he wouldn’t need it but it was better to be safe than sorry. 

Keith heads off in the direction the Birches had come from and feels the wolf follow. The ground is loose under his feet and he angles himself to control his slide down the embankment, reaching the bottom with a quiet grunt. He looks back up to find the wolf eyeing the slope, paws testing the ground like it might bite him.

“Well,” Keith calls out, taking care to pitch his voice to only reach the wolf. “Are you coming, or are you staying up there?”

The wolf snorts and shakes his great head but carefully makes his way down after him. His journey seems to take ages and Keith finds himself nervously checking the tree line around them. 

The wolf almost hits the bottom and skids, forcing Keith to dive to the side to avoid being taken out. When he picks himself up, the wolf eyes him, obvious displeasure in his dark grey eyes.

“Don't look at me like that,” Keith says. “It’s not like I'm forcing you to come along.”

Before Keith could say anything else, the world around them erupts into silence. The wolf stiffens just as Keith does, ears pricked and hackles rising again. Keith stares into the branches around them, peering into the crevasses of open air—was it darker where they had just come from or was it a trick of the light?

Keith swallows hard and manages a quiet, “Come on.”

Together they set off as a brisk pace. Dead and frosted leaf matter crunches under their feet as they go and while a part of him demands they be silent, most of him just wants to hurry. There were no bird calls, no rustling amongst the trees from animal life; even the quieter, more elusive creatures seemed to have disappeared. 

All around them the dark trees stretched like eternity and bit by bit the wind was beginning to pick up. Keith fixed his scarf more firmly around his neck and spared a glance at his companion; the wolf was trotting along at his side, head held low and ears pricked forward. In the low light, his eyes seemed to glow.

The wind picks up suddenly in a howl and the branches creak and groan with the sudden strain. The shades deepen like evening was setting in even though Keith knew it had only just reached midday. Far above, the cloud cover rolled in thick and heavy. 

Walking side by side with the wolf was a comfort, Keith realises, ducking under a low branch. The two of them together would surely have an easier time at winning a fight than Keith had on his own if it came to it.

Even with that knowledge tucked tight to his chest, Keith desperately hopes it doesn’t.

They pass into the lighter forest without incident though the longer they walk the more Keith is convinced that they’re being followed. 

No. Not followed. 

Stalked, maybe—hunted by something that the wolf doesn’t seem to notice. Keith isn’t sure what makes him so certain, there’s no obvious signs aside from the creeping sense of dread that slowly steals over him.

Like a bad omen, thunder rips through the silence and the grey clouds above deepen into something hateful. Rain begins to drip down from the canopy above, light at first but growing harder and harder as the sun disappears. Keith ups his pace to a jog, silent and grim, and at his side the wolf does the same.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, just enough to make his pace falter for a second. 

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, what makes him glance behind him even as the forest around them begins to thin with the approaching edge, but he does. Just quickly, a split second and nothing more but it’s enough. Over his shoulder he spots it running on all fours and completely silent; something big and spindly and black like tar.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Keith gasps. “Run!”

Keith takes off and there’s a sound, a soft wuff of breath and the wolf must see it too. They both bolt for the tree line and the thing must realise it’s been spotted because it gives up its quiet approach. It shrieks and trees topple and snap like kindling under its weight as it throws itself after them. 

The wolf edges out ahead, faster than Keith can keep up with, but slows when he realises he’s left Keith behind. Keith chances another glance back, trying to judge if they’ll make it in their desperate sprint. Behind them a lanky darkness rises from the earth and then disappears in the time it takes Keith to blink.

There’s the sound of splintering wood from their right and Keith looks over just in time to see it breath through the trees; it skitters closer on long stilt-like legs that bent the wrong way at the joints, pelt black and slick. 

Keith has a split second to panic as something reaches for him—a long limb radiating cold and smelling fetid—when there’s the sensation of jaws closing around his arm. The wolf yanks him and the reaching arm overshoots and the thing shrieks with rage. Keith falls against the wolf and the two of them go sprawling on the rain damp earth, falling through leaf matter and snow and dirt, but when he lands he rolls with the motion.

Crouched between it and the wolf, Keith pulls the vial from his pocket and _throws_ it.

The glass breaks on impact and the iron water inside splashes on wood and soil and the creature. The water hisses and bubbles and the thing screams, rearing up and up and _up._ Keith doesn’t wait. He grabs a fistful of the wolf's ruff and _tugs_ until they’re both running again.

The pain from the iron water doesn’t stun the thing for long but it’s enough for the two of them to break through the last few trees and into the field. The wind and rain lashes them, coming down in icy sheets and Keith sprints for the safety of his garden, throwing open his gate and stumbling inside.

When the wolf doesn’t follow him in, he turns. 

He’s standing just outside, eyes wild and teeth bared and Keith can see the way his fur bristles. There’s an almighty crash from the forest and both their heads jerk towards it, flinching from the sounds that follow; shrieks and bellows—and that strange yipping cry that Keith had heard that first night as it hunted him. It rages beyond their sight, caught by the ending of the forest, but Keith can see the way the trees shudder and bow as it thrashes about.

“Get in,” Keith grits out. 

The wolf looks at him. For all he had startled him with his first appearance all those weeks ago, now he looks pathetic—sopping wet with rain and shivering with something that might be more than the cold. His tail is held stiff and low like it wants to curl in and there’s mud streaking his fur. There’s another crack in the distance and it might be the thing or it might be thunder and Keith remembers the wound on his flank, the way he had pulled him out of its path—in the distance, a tree crashes down into the field and something black writhes in the gap.

“Get in,” he repeats tersely, stepping aside, “Before it manages to break out and comes to kill us.” 

The wolf stares at him through the rain and wind and then, creeps forward through the open gate.

Keith feels the way his wards flash with heat as something unfamiliar passes through them—can see the way the wolf flinches like he’s waiting to be hurt—but Keith grabs the searching fire and carefully smothers it, twisting and braiding it into a new shape, one that knows the wolf as a friend. It’s a bit like wrangling hot coals that move but after thirty tense seconds, he succeeds.

Keith closes the gate with a click and the wards settle.

He pushes wet strands of hair from his face, feeling the grit of dirt under his fingers. There’s the indents of teeth ringing the arm of his coat—the protection charms embroidered into the fabric had stopped the wolf's teeth from sinking down to the skin. Chilled water runs over the material and down his face and his neck and Keith feels himself start to shiver.

Keith turns away from his gate and finds the wolf sitting some few feet away, watching him.

He rubs at his arm and then licks rain water from his lips. Keith trudges up the steps, scraping his boots off as he goes. Once he’s under the awning of his porch, he pulls off his coat with stiff fingers and hangs it on the hook outside. With a relieved sigh, he pushes his door open and waits. 

The wolf is still watching him from out in the rain.

Keith’s brow pinches. “Come on, then.”

The wolf’s ears prick and he climbs to his feet. His tail gives a faint little wag.

Keith rolls his eyes as he hesitates again on the steps. “In.” he says, holding the door wider. “Before we both freeze to death.” 

The wolf shakes himself off on the steps and then climbs the last few, claws clicking onto the wood porch. He stops in the doorway, meets his eyes and wags his tail once before finally slipping inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the lateness, life suddenly became A Lot in the last three days ;_;


	3. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He glances at the wolf through his curtain of hair and finds grey eyes already on him. As he watches, they flicker over his form; his hair, his hands, the curve of his thighs before finally turning back to the fire.

The fire crackles merrily in its hearth and his house smells like wet dog.

The wolf’s laying on the rug, staring into the cheerful blaze like it's the key to some secret he desperately wants to know. Meanwhile Keith is standing about the kitchen, body draped in the blanket he’d tugged from his bed and hands occupied in a vague attempt to wring some of the rainwater from his hair.

He keeps sneaking glances at the wolf like it’s a compulsion, every few seconds like clockwork. He can track how much more quickly he dries by the steam he can see curling off the thick white fur. Keith’s hands ache with the cold as he stands there, lingering.

Eventually he gives up and slowly makes his way over to the fire. 

He lowers himself to sit next to the bulk of the wolf, wincing as hidden aches finally begin to make themselves known now that the adrenaline is beginning to wear off. Almost immediately the heat from the fire begins to sink into his chilled skin, sending pins and needles through his fingers and toes. He scoots himself forward, until he's sitting at the very edge of the rug, right by the wolf's head.

He can feel his breath gusting over his bare thighs and Keith shivers, tucking his blanket around him more securely. He keeps an arm free though, and starts trying to work the tangles from his hair. Drops of chilled rainwater fall to the rug and stone below him, one landing close enough to the wolf's nose that he flinches.

“Sorry,” Keith apologises, scooting away just a little bit more.

The wolf eyes him but the shifting light obscures any chance Keith has of working out what emotion is in them.

Eventually Keith's hair begins to dry, curling up at the edges as he continues to run his fingers through it.

A yawn cracks Keith's jaw and he lets his hand fall away to his lap. He's warm now and tired and the urge to just curl up beside the fire is strong; normally he would have given in easily, just fallen asleep by the hearth and its crackling fire but now he has a guest—a guest who he knows remarkably little about.

He glances at the wolf through his curtain of hair and finds grey eyes already on him. As he watches, they flicker over his form; his hair, his hands, the curve of his thighs before finally turning back to the fire. Keith swallows. The wolf's fur looks dry now, thick and soft looking—unbidden the memory of running strands of hair between his thumbs swells up and Keith's hand reaches out before he can think to do otherwise.

The wolf's head snaps towards him and Keith retracts his hand quick enough to send his blanket tumbling off his shoulders.

"Sorry,” he says again, flustered. "Sorry, I—never mind.”

The wolf's ears are pricked, eyes gleaming in the firelight. Keith digs his fingers into the soft weave of the rug under his legs.

Slowly, like he's trying not to startle him, the wolf stretches from his half circle until his nose rests just shy of Keith's knee. His grey eyes flicker from his hand, up to his face and then back again and when he doesn't move—frozen with shock and a sticky feeling of indecision—he huffs, warm breath ghosting over his thigh again and closes the remaining inch between them.

A cold nose presses against a sliver of exposed skin and Keith shudders lightly again, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Okay then,” he murmurs. "I can take a hint.”

Hesitantly, Keith reaches out, hand hovering just over white fur. His hand is trembling ever so slightly and he can't tell if it's the result of the day he's had, a lingering chill in his veins or something else. 

Gently, Keith reaches down and buries his hand in the ruff of his neck. Rough spun silk had been an accurate summation he quickly realises. It's thick and dense and in spite of the faint scratch, there's a certain softness to it—a true wolf coat, he thinks to himself, meant for braving the elements.

There's something viscerally appealing about the idea but he doesn't let himself examine the thought. Instead he frees his other arm completely and sinks both hands into his fur, rubbing softly about the ears.

The wolf looks like he's in bliss, eyes lidded, breaths soft and deep.

Time drifts slightly until Keith isn't sure how long he's been sitting there, hands buried in the wolf's fur, with his head almost in his lap. As he digs his fingers through the thick pelt he can feel the faint ridges of scars—old enough and small enough to not be obvious like the one across his muzzle—and wonders how long it's been since he’s been touched without the intent to hurt.

Keith cards his fingers through his fur until his arms grow heavy and tired and then finally he just rests them there, entangled amongst the thick ruff.

The wolf makes a small noise of discontent but otherwise doesn't seem fussed.

Keith taps his fingers absently behind an ear, catching the way it flicks.

"I feel like I should have a name for you,” Keith says absently.

The wolf looks up at him, questioningly and Keith shrugs.

"I know you're not a wolf,” Keith says. "Or at least, not a normal one. I'm pretty sure you have your own name, right?”

An expression flitters across his face, but it’s gone quick enough that Keith can't tell what it is. Whatever it is, the wolf presses his muzzle harder against Keith's thigh and into his hands and Keith decides to take it as a yes.

Keith starts to stroke him again. "You have your own name,” he continues, "But you can't speak or you don't want to.” Keith bites at his lip as he thinks. “I don't want to assume.” He says slowly, “But it feels rude to just call you ‘Hey, You’ all the time.”

The wolf huff’s and Keith can almost imagine it as a laugh. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips even as he considers his next few words carefully. 

Sometimes naming the things that came out of the forest was a dangerous idea, but Keith thinks the wolf will let it slide.

Keith cocks his head to the side and warm grey eyes catch with his. White fur slips through his fingers like strands of starlight and it almost gleams under the flickering fire. 

“Shiro,” Keith says slowly, testing the way the same feels. “I’ll call you Shiro if I need to.”

In the hearth, the fire crackles and spits. The moment stretches and then the wolf slumps slightly, whuffing against his leg. 

"Okay,” Keith says quietly, a finger tracing lightly at the scar across his muzzle. "Okay.”

xXx

Keith has no idea what time he eventually gets up to go to his bed, leaving the wolf to sprawl out by the dwindling fire. All he does remember is that his bedroom felt quieter and darker and colder than it has ever before.

Waking up is a slow rise towards consciousness. Sunlight spills in through his window, brighter than any day so far. He scrunches his nose against the intrusion and rolls over, half determined to cling to sleep.

But alas, wakefulness refuses to let him go and he finds himself blinking sleepily at his pillow a few minutes later, limbs slowly filling with the urge to move. 

He dresses slowly, splashing his face with chilly water in an attempt to drive away the last bit of sleep fog. Looking out the window reveals a landscape of white and dull greens and browns and despite the strength of the sun it still feels achingly cold. 

Keith pads out from his bedroom, scratching lightly at his stomach when he spots the white, furry mountain taking up most of his living space.

Right, Keith thinks to himself. His guest. 

He’s still sleeping, shoulders and ribs rising and falling with each gusting breath and Keith decides to leave him be. Instead he creeps through his own home, feet as silent and ghosting as they are in the forest as tries to be as quiet as possible as he goes about making breakfast.   
  
There's the fresh bread from Hunk that he sets aside for now and a single slice of toasted bread that he hadn’t eaten yesterday that’s gone a little stale. Keith just shrugs and grabs the honey to drizzles on top. The wolf is still sprawled in front of the hearth so he boils the water from his tea the old-fashioned way, with both hands clasped around the heavy cast iron kettle.

It’s difficult to create heat without fire, without spilt blood—a walk instead of a run—but soon enough the water is steaming up from the kettle. Keith leaves his own blend of tea to steep and wanders past the wolf to the window and the pot resting on its sill. As he walks past, the fire in the hearth begins to stir with a muted hiss. 

The Ash-wood is fully sprouted, verdant leaves swaying gently in the morning light. He runs a gentle finger over one and it shivers in response. 

Keith turns back to the kitchen, taking another bite from his toast as he walks. He finishes it in two bites and pulls a chipped cup from a cupboard and grabs the tin that Hunk had hidden in his basket, beneath the bread. 

Keith pours his tea, steam wafting up from his cup and, of all things he's done so far, that seems to be the thing that wakes the wolf up. He hears him sniff as the scent of chamomile fills the air and then he’s blinking awake, great jaws opening wide in a yawn that makes Keith's own ache in sympathy.

"Morning,” Keith calls, reaching for the tin. If he doesn't have to worry about accidentally waking him up then that means he can open the tin and see what Hunk made him. 

The wolf makes a soft whining sound and stands, stretching with his paws out. He pads into the kitchen, claws clicking on the floor and sniffs the air when he gets to the table.

The tin opens with a pop and Keith breathes in the scent of the sugar cookies he loves. He sips some tea while pulling one out and settles back into his chair.

"Did you sleep well?” 

There's no answer, at least not really, but he hadn't honestly been expecting one. Instead the wolf just inches forward, head clearing the table to sniff closer at the kettle.

Keith raises an eyebrow. "It's tea. Chamomile.” He takes another sip and then nibbles on the sugar cookie.

The wolf presses closer, nose just shy of actually touching the kettle and Keith raises an eyebrow. His eyes fall shut and it breathes in deep.

Keith puts his cup down slowly. "Do you want some?” he asks, hesitantly.

The wolf's eyes open and he cocks his head to the side before sneezing lightly, stepping away to sit at the head of the table.

Keith shrugs. "I'll take that as a no, then.”

The rest of breakfast passes in silence. The wolf happily eats the meat Keith sets out for him and Keith devours five cookies before he finishes his tea. While cleaning his dishes, he looks up and out the window to his garden. There are vegetables that need to be picked and he should do that while the weathers good—should even take more of them down to Hunk while he can. 

Mind made up, Keith hurries about, getting dressed and packing in preparation. He grabs his basket and a ribbon for the handle with a new weave for Hunk to try out and grabs his scarf and his knife. 

All the while, the wolf watches him hurry about, head cocked to the side. 

Keith drapes his scarf over his neck and grabs the basket and ribbon to take with him and when he turns around, the wolf is waiting by the front door.

Keith hooks his basket over the crook of his arm and hurries. "Sorry, I should have let you out earlier.”

The wolf doesn't seem particularly fussed either way, waiting patiently for Keith to throw open the locks and swing the door open. 

The wolf heads out first, shaking himself and stretching once on the porch. And then, as Keith closes the door behind him, he leaps down the stairs and into the thin layer of snow that built up over night. Keith laughs as he watches the huge wolf roll around in the garden, looking for all intents and purposes like a puppy. 

Shaking his head in amusement, Keith leaves the wolf to his own devices and heads to his vegetable patch. There's eggplant and zucchini growing heavy amongst the leaves, red chilies hanging from their branches. He pulls up a few carrots as well and tucks them in with the rest. He fills the basket almost to bursting and then, as an extra thank you to Hunk for the cookies, Keith picks a small punnet's worth of red strawberries and rests them gently on top of a head of lettuce.

The soft crunching of snow is the only warning Keith gets before a nose gently touches the back of a shoulder and he only barely manages to stop himself from dropping the ribbon in his hand.

The wolf is standing just outside the warded stones of his vegetable garden. In the cold morning light, his eyes look startlingly bright. Keith rubs the palms of his hands against his thighs and finishes tying off the ribbon.

He stands, holding the basket. "I'm going to head into the village for a short while, but I'll be back by midday I think.” 

The wolf huffs and then shakes, sending bits of snow flying. Keith wipes a fleck off his cheek with a small grin. "You can keep playing in the snow if you want,” he offers.

The wolf gives him a look and then trots off and Keith follows behind. He's waiting for Keith at the gate and he opens it for him and then closes it behind them, setting off down the path.

Instead of running off to do whatever it is that the wolf does when he's alone, he follows Keith, walking sedately along at his side close enough that Keith could feel the heat radiating from him. 

"Going to walk me there, huh?” Keith eyes the wolf and shifts his grip on the basket. "Well, as long as you don't get close enough for them to see you. They're loud when they panic.”  
  
The wolf makes a sound that might be an agreement and then they both lapse into a comfortable silence.

The sun was out and so were the animals for once. Keith could hear birds fluttering about in the trees and could hear the faint rustling coming from the shrub either side of the path. Once the wolf darts off into the bush and comes back looking very self satisfied. There's a faint, chilly breeze blowing; just enough to send Keith's loose hair drifting about and to ruffle the wolf's pelt.

It's comfortable. Not just the silence, Keith quickly realises, but the sense of companionship. Aside from the early days when Keith had needed assistance when fixing up the cottage, Keith has never walked this road with anyone before, at least not merely because they wanted to. Even he and Hunk rarely did things together just _because._

It's an odd sensation but a pleasant one, Keith decides. The wolf is unobtrusive for such a large creature but he also provides a sense of safety; Keith doesn't have to be as vigilant as he would normally have to be on the road while the wolf is with him.

Between one snatch of birdsong and the next, they round the bend and the village is within distance. The wolf slows to a stop, looking at Keith and then towards the cluster of houses. He sniffs the air and then, before Keith can say anything, trots off the path towards a small cluster of trees and flops at the base of one.

With his white pelt he blends in remarkably well with the snow cover. 

"You'll wait here then?” Keith asks.

The wolf's tail wags and Keith takes that as his answer.

xXx

Keith ducks into the town on quick feet, avoiding people with expertise born of long practice. There aren't a huge number of people out and about and that makes it easy. 

The smithy is closed and Keith can't feel the roar of a fire in the forge so he skips past it towards Hunk's home. 

He's walking up the steps and a meow catches his attention a split second before Buttercup slips from the shadows and makes to rub herself against his legs. Instead of almost bowling him over though, she pauses a foot away and puffs up comically. Keith laughs quietly and crouches, setting the basket next to him on the steps.

He holds out a hand. "Come on sweetheart, you know me.”

Cautiously, she creeps forward and sniffs at his fingers, mouth opening slightly. The look she levels him with can only be described as scandalised, and he snorts in amusement. 

"I apologise for the dog smell, but I promise I'm really me.” 

After a few seconds of continuing to eye him suspiciously, Buttercup finally presses against his hand and then moves to rub herself against his legs, tail flicking up into his face. He sputters lightly, and rubs under her chin, feeling the rumble of her chest under his hands.

Eventually he stands, knees cracking as he goes. "Time to go see your dad, butter bean.” 

Buttercup makes a small _murrp_ and then follows him to the door. He knocks twice and waits, reaching a hand down to run over her head as she stretches onto her back legs.

He hears the sound of footsteps a second or so before the door swings open.

Hunk beams at him. "Keith! Didn't think I'd be seeing you for a few more days.” 

Keith walks in behind him, dancing around Buttercup as she wiggles her way between his feet. "My vegetable patch seems to be happy; I have some more things for you.”

Hunk grins at him before finally taking pity on Keith and scooping Buttercup into his arms. As he does, Keith spots the ribbon Keith left him last time, wrapped tightly around one large bicep.

Keith nod's towards it. "How's that one working for you.”

Hunk places Buttercup onto a chair and takes the basket from Keith. "Pretty good so far—definitely keeps the heat away better than the last one.”

Keith nods, pleased. "I brought you another one,” he says. "You'll have to tell me which one works best.”

Hunks face goes soft. "Aw, buddy, you shouldn't have.” He runs his fingers along the ribbon tying the basket closed. "I know how long these things take to make.”

Keith shrugs, betting absently at Buttercup. "S'not like I have a lot else to do with my time.”

"Now that's a lie,” Hunk snorts. "You never seem to be doing nothing.”

Keith shrugs helplessly. "I mean. I sleep I guess?”

Hunk merely shakes his head. "No, I don't think that counts either; like there's a purpose behind sleep? So it's not really doing nothing, you know?”

Keith brushes some hair away from his face. “I’ll take your word on that.”

His friend flashes him a bright grin in between pulling vegetables out of the basket. He ‘ooh's and ‘ahh's over the produce and goes vaguely misty eyed when he pulls out the small collection of strawberries. He breathes in their scent and then sighs out, looking decidedly pleased. 

He offers one to Keith and he takes it, biting into it as he watches Hunk do the same.

Hunk moans slightly as he chews. "Man, you always have the best fruit,” he says around a mouthful. "Tastes like magic.”

Keith looks down at the fruit in his hand and then shrugs, eating the rest. Truthfully he's never noticed much of a difference and he tells Hunk as much.

He shakes his head. "Nope, there's a difference, trust me. Although it's kind of weird,” Hunk continues, looking down at the strawberries. "I've tasted magic grown plants elsewhere and they always taste…odd? Less flavour. But yours always taste great, I wonder why that is?”

"No idea,” Keith says honestly. "I just—" He does a vague hand motion, "And then they grow. I don't do anything fancy with them.”

"Huh,” Hunk says. "Well regardless, I'm not complaining about it. I'm thinking jam this time, maybe?”

"Sounds good to me,” Keith says. 

Keith leans back against the table as he watches Hunk bustle about his kitchen, washing the vegetables and putting them away. There's already something bubbling away in a heavy pot and Hunk goes back to chopping something green into fine bits.

"So,” Hunk begins after a while. "There something you want to tell me?''

Keith blinks out of the stupor he'd fallen into. "What?”

Hunk shrugs, back facing Keith. "Oh, nothing. I just couldn't help but notice the white hair on your coat, that's all.”

Keith's hand flashes up to his own shoulder. "Uhh—"

"I knew it!” Hunk spins around in flash, eyes alight as he points his knife at Keith. "Who is he? You know, I always figured you preferred older men but I'm trying to think who in the village has _white_ hair—"

"What?” Keith says flatly.

"—but I can't really think of anyone that you don’t—you know—hate?” Hunk narrows his eyes at Keith. "Is it a traveller? Someone from a different Village? Is that why I don't know him, Keith—"

Keith stands up, hands held out. "Woah, wait a second.” Keith can feel the heat in his cheeks and resists the urge to touch them. "I'm not seeing anyone and—" Keith blinks at Hunk. "Wait, what do you mean by "preferred older men”?”

Hunk lowers his judgemental knife, blinking. "Oh, I don’t mean anything bad by it; you just gave me that feeling, you know?” He pauses. "Wait, what do you mean you're _not_ seeing anyone?”

"I mean I'm not seeing anyone,” Keith says, flustered. "I'm alone—"

Hunk holds up a hand and then crosses his arms. "Okay, _that_ was a lie.” He frowns at Keith. "Is it meant to be a secret or something?”

Keith gapes at him and then groans. "No, I'm—No,” he says firmly. "There isn't a _person_ at my home.”

Hunk squints at him. "What does that mean?”

Still flustered, Keith fiddles with his loose strands of hair. "It means what I said it means?” Hunk squints at him even more and Keith deflates. "Okay, don't be mad,” he starts, “but I might have brought the wolf home with me?”

Hunk stares at him blankly for a few seconds. "Did you say you brought _the wolf_ home with you? The wolf big enough to snap you in two with its giant jaws.”

"Technically yes?” Keith says tentatively. "But I don't think he's going to do that? Or if he was, I think he would have done it already.”

"But how do you know that, Keith!” Hunk says, sounding distressed. _"It's a wolf—”_

"He's a wolf,” Keith corrects.

Hunk stares at him and then huffs. "Okay, _he’s_ a wolf! How do you know he isn't going to _eat you_ when he gets hungry later?”

Keith shrugs, petting at Buttercup for something to do with his hands. "Seems like an odd turn of events when after all he's done to help me.”

Hunk frowns. "What does that mean?”

Keith scuffs his boot across the floor. Despite his work in the forge and the constant use of his kitchen there’s no dust or dirt. Keith honestly has no idea how he manages it.

“Keith,” Hunk says warningly.

Keith’s hands pet at Buttercup nervously. "Yesterday, while I was in Daibazaal, I ran into him. I had stopped for a break and he appeared and wound up keeping me company.” His hands slow to a stop. “Something happened and we decided to leave and while we were heading back out we were…waylaid.”

Hunk straightens, sensing the change in tone. "Waylaid?”

"Attacked,” Keith corrects himself quietly. "By the thing that tried to get me before. The wolf pulled me out of the way of a hit—Hunk, if it wasn't for him, I might not be standing here right now.” 

Hunk stares at him for a second in silence and then sniffs quietly, carefully putting the knife down. And then before Keith can say anything else, he's stepping forward and scooping Keith up into a hug. 

Keith groans slightly as the air is crushed from his lungs, but he merely tries to return the hug as best he can. Thankfully, Hunk sets him back down fairly quickly. 

"Okay,” he says. "The wolf can stay then.”

Keith blinks at him and smiles wryly. "I wasn't exactly asking for your permission, you know.”

Hunk pokes him in the chest with a finger. "Maybe so but now you've got got it anyway.” 

Keith carefully keeps his face blank even if he can’t help but feel pleased by the thought.

Hunk drifts back over to his cooking. "So do you know what kind of wolf your wolf is?” he asks over his shoulder. "I mean, he’s brought you gifts and he’s saved your life. Is he a guardian?”

Keith rubs the back of his neck. “No idea.” he admits. “A guardian is a fair guess but it’s not the only one. Plenty of fae can change their shape and depending on what they are and how they think, gift giving isn’t the strangest thing. He could even be a normal wolf that’s been enchanted or—or any number of other things really.”

"Is there any way to find out?” Hunk asks, curious. 

Keith flexes his fingers absently. "There might be,” he says slowly. 

Hunk hums, stirring the pot. They both drift into silence for a moment even as Keith’s thoughts begin to race; he think’s he has to tools to pull it off stashed away in his attic but then again he might not. It wouldn’t particularly matter if he didn’t, but now that the thought’s occurred to him he knows he might not be able to ignore it. 

The silence that spreads between the two of them is a comfortable one. It was one of the many things that he appreciated about Hunk—his desire to actually _talk_ to Keith but also his willingness to let him have his quiet. Buttercup purrs beneath his hands, a sound larger than her body should be able to contain and Keith can hear the soft simmer of whatever it is that Hunk’s cooking.

He knows he can’t stay for too long. Outside the village the wolf is waiting for him and there’s things to be done at home, but a little while longer wont hurt.

"You know,” Hunk says after a while, shattering the silence and startling him in turn. "The trappers have been having problems lately.”

Keith looks up, trying to track the jump in topic. “Yeah?”

Hunk nods, still facing away from him. "Most of them live on the edges of the Village; I've had a few come into the smithy recently with damaged traps and such—mostly normal stuff. But I heard them talking.”

"About,” Keith questions, a strange sense of foreboding building beneath his sternum.

Hunk frowns down at his pot. "I'm not really sure, to be honest. Strange sounds coming from the trees at night— _stranger_ sounds.. A few of them have said that they've felt watched while they were out there, but that it felt different than usual? For a while I thought it might have been your wolf but then…One came in with a trap, damndest thing I've ever seen—the metal was corroded right through.”

Something cold skitters down Keith's spine. "The sounds in the forest—did they say what they sounded like?”

Hunk thinks for a moment and then nods slowly. "Sometimes like a shriek or a scream? But one of them, you remember James right?

Keith nods as the vague mental image of a stern faced young man comes and then fades. 

Hunk nods. "He said he was out late one night, god knows why. He was heading back along the forest's edge when he said it suddenly felt like he was being watched—but when he turned around to look, there was nothing there.”

"And then what?”

Hunk shrugs. “He was only a few feet into the forest—said he turned tail and ran and that he could feel it following him but it stopped once he got out of the forest. That's when he heard it. Almost like some of the cattle Montgomery used to keep.” He eyes Keith and then slumps. "That sound's familiar to you, doesn't it.”

“Unfortunately,” Keith says grimly.

Hunk taps his wooden spoon against the edge of the pot. “The thing you’ve been having problems with lately?” At Keith’s nod, Hunk slumps slightly. “I thought you said it was something from the deep forest?”

"I did?” Keith says. 

"So why is it coming to the forest's edge?” Hunk asks, hesitantly. 

It was a good question, one that had been nagging absently at Keith since he and the wolf had spilled from the forest the day before; creatures of the old and dark places generally stuck to where the shadows grew deepest and the magic was strongest. In Daibazaal, that was the inner forests where the trees were ancient and grew into the foot of the mountain range—rarely did they stray amongst the thinner, lighter and newer growth.

But Keith thinks about the thing in the woods—it's reaching limbs and the blackness that had felt so cold to Keith and suddenly the question doesn’t seem so difficult to answer.

"I think it's hungry,” Keith says quietly. "Or maybe just angry.”

"Maybe both,” Hunk posits. "It sounds like the kind of thing that would be both.”

"Maybe,” Keith sighs. And then, "Probably.”

"So what do we do?” Hunk fidgets with the spoon in his hand. 

Keith stands, petting at Buttercup. "Tell the trappers to stay out of the forests as much as they can after it hits noon, but especially once it gets dark. That goes for you too, Hunk. Be indoors when the sun goes down.”

"You think it can come out of the forest?” Hunk asks.

Keith thinks of crashing in the trees, and the shrieks and bellows that had followed their escape. It had been angry—no. It had been _enraged._ "I think it wants to.”

"Okay,” Hunk breathes out after a moment. "Okay, yeah I'll tell James and Kinkade when they comes by the smithy later. What do I tell them if they asks more about it?”

"Tell James that he's very lucky,” Keith says simply. 

"Well then.” Hunk smiles weakly. "I'm sufficiently creeped out now.”

Keith shakes his head, nudging Hunk gently. "We should be fine. Just keep the horseshoe above your doors and do what I said.”

"Yeah.” Hunk wrinkles his nose as he thinks. "Should I give them some horseshoes or something? Do you think that would that help?”

Keith thinks about it for a second. "Can't hurt,” he eventually decides. "Just tell them what I told you; one above each doorway to the house.”

"And the iron shavings,” Hunks asks. "Did you find some use for that?”

“Oh.” Keith blinks. "Yeah, I did actually. Helped save my life.”

"Really?” Hunks eyebrows rise until they almost reach the strip of cloth. "How?”

Keith grins at him tiredly. "Water with iron shavings in it is a good deterrent for some things. Just make sure to leave the iron in there for three nights before using it. Or just tossing the iron shavings at the thing would probably work too.”

Hunk nods. "I'll let them know.”

xXx

The two of them chat for a while more, but the longer he's there, the more Keith has to fight the urge to leave—to run back to the wolf and back home and check and triple check that things are safe.

Hunk must realise because soon enough he's shooing Keith off, a ceramic container filled with something warm and meaty smelling weighing down his basket. Keith bows out with minimal arguing, eternally grateful for Hunk's perceptive nature.

Maybe it's because he's already so on edge from his conversation with Hunk that he notices it so quickly. 

He's walking back out of the village when the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Before he has time to question it he's darting into a small alcove between two buildings, wincing as the small crack of a breaking twig seemingly echoes into the air. Finally he looks back just in time to see Sanda turn the corner with her two goons behind her.

She's obviously looking for him, steely eyes scanning the street where she expected to see him. 

Keith flattens himself back against the wall. 

Out of all the things he doesn't wish to deal with, Sanda and her bullshit might rate higher than the thing in the woods.

There's the scuff of a boot and he hunkers down and listens. 

"You said you saw him?” comes Sanda's terse voice.

"Yes ma'am,” comes one of the men with her. "I saw him come out of Garrett's house not two minutes ago.” 

"Well unless something's changed, he can't vanish into thin air,” she says waspishly. "Find the Witch, I need to talk with him.”

He hears the two men spread out on either side of the street, can hear one of them getting closer and closer. He hears the scrape of another boot and some low mutterings and then finally a small exclamation. Keith chances a small peek and finds the man crouched down, looking intently at the ground at a broken twig.

Keith hunches back when he sees the man stand and internally, he curses his luck. He doesn't want to have to think about Sanda, doesn't want to deal with her and her demands. 

He just wants to go home.

He breathes out a sigh and straightens, ready to step out into the street before he can be accused of hiding from them when a sudden streak of yellow darts between his legs.

There's an evil sounding hiss followed by a startled shout and then the sound of boots scrabbling against the ground.

"What is it?” the other man shouts.

"It's Garretts damn cat,” the closer one grits out. "Giant yellow monster—must've been hiding.”

In the distance Sanda sniffs. "Little beast. Well never mind. We'll find him next time and even if we don’t, we know where he lives. It’s not like he can hide forever. Come along.”

Keith waits until he can't hear their footsteps anymore and then waits a minute more just to be safe. When he finally emerges, the street is empty apart from one giant, satisfied looking cat sitting primly in the middle of the street licking her paw.

Keith grins at her, and scratches behind her ears gently. "My hero,” he coos and she buts against him with her head. 

Eventually she fixes him with a look and turns away from him, wacking him with her tail again. He watches fondly as she lopes back down the street towards Hunk's home, job apparently done.

"Thank you,” he calls out after her, laughing quietly when he hears a soft trilling chirp come from Buttercup in response. 

Before he pushes his luck any further, Keith hurries off down the road and out of the Village. 

To his surprise the wolf is still dozing when he gets back. He walks off the pathway and over to the mass of white fur and muscle and clears his throat when he's a few feet away. 

The wolf jolts, massive head rising up to blink at him sleepily, talk thumping lightly at the ground. 

"Time to go home,” Keith announces, standing back politely as the wolf heaves himself onto his paws and yawn. 

The trip back is a lot quicker than the trip there. He can feel the wolf sending him curious glances every now and then but Keith can't quite shake the conversation he'd had with Hunk. 

Being with the wolf offers some small measure of comfort but still, as he walks he can't help but feel as if the light has grown weaker and the shadows longer. 

The wolf seems to feel it too, or maybe he's just reacting to Keith. Unlike before, he sticks close to Keith and doesn't pull away to play-hunt in the bushes, not even when he looks like he wants to. 

Keith can't help the sigh of relief that escapes him when his home comes into view and he picks up the pace. The wolf trots alongside him and then waits patiently for Keith to open the gate for the two of them and then again for him to close it. 

When Keith walks up his stairs though, the wolf seems to hesitate. 

Keith looks down into grey eyes and gets the feeling that the wolf is waiting for permission, which feels faintly ridiculous to him at this point. 

"You know,” Keith starts. "If you ever wanted to come and go on your own, the wards will let you through now. I mean, you'd have to jump the fence but you never have to wait for me now.”

The wolf’s tail wags ever so slightly and Keith smiles. 

"Are you coming in, or what?”

The wolf brushes against him as he trots through the open door and Keith can't be certain but it feels deliberate and something pleased rises within Keith like a sleeper wave.

The fire springs up in the hearth and the Ash-wood waves its leaves merrily in it's little pot as the wolf flops dramatically to the rug. Keith kicks the door shut behind him and carries the basket over to his table and sets it down gently.  
  
Inside the ceramic lid rattles in place slightly and that warm, meaty aroma fills the air. Keith leans forward and closes his eyes, stomach growling. Whatever it is, it smells amazing but he wouldn't expect anything less from Hunk. 

There's a soft thumping sound from the wolf and Keith glances over. He's half laying on the rug, muzzle to the air sniffing, and the thumping sound is his tail. 

"Wanna come look,” Keith offers, and is almost surprised by how quickly the wolf scrambles to his paws. 

He pads his way over and then sits, hunching slightly to rest his head on the table. Keith pulls the pot out, nudging the basket out of the way with his elbow to plop it down in its place. 

He pulls the lid off with little fanfare and his stomach immediately growls. He can see roasted potato and a few other vegetables but his eyes are pretty well focused on the chicken laying dead centre, skin a beautiful golden brown. 

"Huh.” Keith puts the pot down. "I wonder if this is the chicken you caught me.”

The wolf whines, wriggling an inch closer. Keith nods in agreement. 

"Yeah, okay. Time for lunch I guess.” The wolf yips quietly and Keith chuckles. "Let me go wash my hands.”

Keith heads to his bedroom, trusting the wolf to not eat the entire chicken while he's gone. 

His bed is still messy and Keith halfheartedly fixes the blankets while he's there and then ducks into his bathroom. Light streams in through a window and he wanders over to the basin, filling it with water and while he waits he glances up into the dull shine of his mirror. 

The silver is tarnished in places, age giving the edges a dark patina. It had been one of the few salvageable things in the cottage when he'd arrived and it had taken him weeks to shine it up properly and then set it in a solid frame. 

While he's looking he catches a glimpse of white. Reaching up he pulls a long strand of fur off the shoulder of his dark coat and he flushes. 

"Hiding my own man,” Keith mutters to himself. He twists the strand between his fingers and it glimmers in the low light. "You have a terrible imagination Hunk.”

He stops the flow of water and makes to dispose of the strand when he pauses. After a long seconds thought, he tucks it away into his pocket, innocuous, and goes about scrubbing his hands and splashing water on his face. 

He dresses down before he heads back to the kitchen; light tunic and soft pants and heads back out to find the wolf waiting in the exact same position as when he left. 

His tail thumps lightly against the floors in greeting. 

"Time for food,” Keith announces and the thump becomes a full wag. 

He dishes out two portions; a smaller one for himself with a large strip of skin that he peels away with a guilty look at the wolf, and a larger one that he sets on a plate with only a second's hesitation. 

They eat together in silence. The wolf finishes before him easily and then licks his plate clean and Keith is half tempted to do the same. 

Instead he swallows the last mouthful with a happy sigh. "You know, I'm half certain Hunk has a Knack when it comes to food. His smithing too, probably.”

The wolf huffs and Keith likes to think it's in agreement. 

He rises slowly, collecting the plates and washing them and then he stows away the leftovers for later. 

He stretches in place, spine cracking comfortably as he thinks about what needs to be done. His garden is sorted for the most part and food has already been taken care of courtesy of Hunk. That really only leaves sorting out the drying herbs in the attic which he's been putting off for days. 

"I'm going to be upstairs for most of today,” Keith tells the wolf. "I don't think you can make it up the ladder so you can't come with, but I'll leave the front door open for you so you can come and go as you please.”

The wolf makes an odd grumbling sound as Keith climbs the attic ladder but Keith can hear the clicks of his claws as he wanders in the direction of the open door.

Normally he would be far more disquieted about leaving it open when he wasn't there to keep a look out but he figures that between his own wards and the wolf himself, it should be safe.

Instead he lets himself fall into the act of sorting out his herbs; stripping leaves and plucking away flowers with nimble fingers. It's muscle memory but this point, ingrained into him from years of practice with no second hands to rely on. It goes quicker than he's expecting and soon the lamp on the table is burning low.

Keith rocks back on his heel, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he surveys the work he's done. A significant portion of his herbs have been bottled into jars and vials as needed and a few he's ground down into powder just in case. The books he has up there have been reorganised and dusted and the collection of thread and wool he's amassed has been sorted and tucked up by his small, worn down loom. 

In his pocket, his fingers touch something soft.

He startles and then remembers as he plucks out the strand of fur he'd tucked away earlier.

Keith bites his lip as he runs it between his fingers absently. He can't hear the wolf moving about downstairs which probably means he's outside somewhere.

Back in Hunk’s home he’d stood there wondering and now he knows. His eyes flicker to the hatch in the floor.

It turns out that he does have the tools upstairs as well as ingredients.

By the light of the slowly dying lantern, he pulls down a mortar and pestle, a candle and two jars filled with dried flowers. 

Nightshade and Divinator's Lilac go into the mortar, purple and white, and he grinds them down to a fine powder. He's never done this before—never had to really, but somehow the steps come to him easily. He lights the plain white candle with a touch, sticking it to the table with a spot of melted wax and reaches for the powder. 

It falls into the yellow flame and there's a spark as the powder ignites, pale blue smoke curling towards the ceiling. He carefully doesn't breathe it in. A second passes as and then before Keith's eyes, the fire flickers and turns white and ghostly.

Keith takes the strand of fur and sets it alight. 

It burns without smell but the smoke billows up thick despite that. Keith watches as it curls into shapes in the air; a wolf's head, fangs bared in a snarl. A flower that Keith recognises as aconite, its monk's hood unmistakable, and finally, before the smoke dissipates into nothingness, a heart. 

A human heart, Keith thinks as he snuffs out the candle with care. Or at least it might have been. He can't call himself an expert on either anatomy or butchery to tell whether it truly was human or animal, even though his gut tells him that he knows.

As he climbs down the ladder, he wonders what it means—if it even means anything at all. Divination is a fickle type of magic at the best of times even if you _are_ using it correctly and it’s far from Keith's usual skillset. 

He spies the wolf through the open door, laying across the pathway to the gate. There's a small bird pulling tufts of fur from his tail but he seems mostly unbothered by the tiny thief. 

Keith leans against the doorjamb, content to watch.

There were some things, mannerisms that he's noticed which were odd at best. Odd for a wolf and odd for a fae, odd for any number of creatures which existed in the places humans rarely walked. 

But…

Keith shakes his head, pushing away from the door. In the end it doesn't really matter. A guest is a guest and a friend is a friend. Where Shiro came from and what he was didn't really make a difference in the end.   
  
xXx

The next day comes and goes quickly. 

There's nothing much to do around the house that hasn't already been done and the snow outside is beginning to fall again. The unusually bright sunlight from the day before melts away like it was never there, leaving behind a familiar murky gloom that suffuses everything. 

Keith drags a pile of his older clothes to the fireside along with a chair, picks up a needle and thread and begins the slow process of embroidering protective sigils around the cuffs and the collars under the wolf's curious eyes. 

Its painstaking work but the bright red thread looks like jewels against the dark pallet of his clothes—rubies against charcoal. 

The sun rises and falls with seemingly little change to the light and he only stops when the wolf presses the tip of his nose against the back of his hand, pausing his work in time for lunch and then dinner. 

He tends to the Ash-wood while he's up, trickling small amounts of water into the dark soil and watching the leaves quiver in thanks. 

The wolf is quiet and lazy, content to nap in front of the hearth on the rug he seems to have claimed as his own. 

Keith finally comes to a stop when his fingers start to cramp from holding the needle. He puts his things down, flexing his hands gently to work the blood back into them. 

The fire is crackling softly in the hearth, flickering and dancing about. It waves at him when it notices him looking and then carries on. The wolf's breath gusts out from him, deep and slow in his doze. 

With a sigh and a stretch, Keith sets his clothes off to the side, needle tucked into the spool of thread that he balances on top of the tiny mountain. 

He's...not exactly tired but there's a softness to him that almost makes him feel it. The open spot on the rug looks warm and inviting between the solid bulk of the wolf and the glow of the fire. He's slept on that rug before when his bed was too big and too lonely and the desire to do so now is almost overwhelming. 

Instead he carries the chair back to the table and puts the clothes and thread away. He feeds fire another log, spares a glance to the spot by the wolf's belly and then heads back to his room. 

It's dark and cold in there compared to the living space. He lights the lantern on his bedside table so the room fills with something other than inky shadows and crawls under his blankets. 

Outside the sky sits in heavy darkness. 

A new moon. 

He stares into that empty space, lit only by the faint twinkling of distant stars and a shiver runs down his spine. 

His toes curl against the cold floor as he slips out from under the covers and walks to his window. The shutters close with a solid click and Keith crawls back into bed. 

He doesn't know how long he drifts for, stuck in that hazy place between wakefulness and true sleep. An hour or two at the most maybe, the light in the lantern just beginning to dim and flicker. 

Somewhere outside his window there's a _crack._

Keith's eyes snap open, adrenaline flooding his veins. 

It's a distant sound, coming from the line of trees lurking beyond the field. He lays there, staring at his window until his heartbeat slows. 

Keith pulls his blankets up over his shoulder and hugs his pillow to him, letting his eyes drift shut again. 

One breath, two and then he's back in that place, drifting sweetly. 

_C r a c k_

The sound comes from the trees again and he opens his eyes to darkness. The lantern has run down and the only light comes from the glow of the hearth fire, seeping in under his door. 

_C r a c k_

Somewhere, another tree falls. 

There's a new sound then, like the wind is picking up; a thin reedy howl that rips its way across the field. It rises in a crescendo and for a second, Keith ceases to breathe—he lays there, hands clenched to white before the wail hits its peak and then—

_C r a c k_

A final great felling. 

His shutters rattle in their frames as the sound tapers off into the wind and Keith shivers under his blanket. There's a cold bleeding in from outside that has nothing to with the snow. A feeling creeps up his spine like fingers dancing over his skin and the hair on the back of his neck rises. 

Outside, something moves. 

He can't see it but he can feel it; a slow moving shape, slipping out from the trees. He thinks it's moving towards the house—he _knows_ it's moving towards the house. 

He slides from his bed, blankets caught in his white knuckle grip and he backs towards the door. He reaches behind him for the handle, unwilling to take his eyes from the window, unable to shake the feeling that if he does, something will slip through. 

The door opens and he stumbles backwards, almost tripping over the blankets he's still clutching. By the hearth, the wolf wakes with a startled huff, turning to him with bleary eyes as Keith closes his bedroom door with shaking hands. 

When he looks back, the wolf is half up, eyes bright and ears pricked and Keith hurries closer to him and the welcoming fire. 

He's about to explain, to say something when there's a sound from outside the house. 

They both turn. 

The wind is still howling but beneath that he can hear it; a faint coughing yip coming from somewhere in the distance, horrible and familiar. The wolf's fur bristles and Keiths hands let go of the blankets and rise. 

The wind dies suddenly and there's a grave of silence. 

Heat presses itself along him and Keith buries a hand in the ruff of the wolf's neck as they stand there together, straining to listen. The wood of the house creaks around them quietly and shadows dance with the flickering fire. 

The window by the door gapes like an open maw, black and endless. His eyes are drawn to it and he finds himself staring intently. It's difficult to see anything with the light from the fire reflecting off the glass, so he reaches out and smothers it down to glowing coals. 

Bit by bit, the night reveals itself to him. 

The world outside is awash with grey and deep dark shadows. The line of trees in the distance is an indistinct dark blur on the horizon and mist or fog hangs low over the ground, twisting into shapes with the wind. 

He can see the fence line and the twisted plum tree and beside it, rising up out of the gloom, is a tall dark shape. 

Keith's breath splinters in his chest as he stares at the thing. 

It doesn't move, doesn't seem to breathe as it looks in through the window—because while he can't see eyes or a face or anything other than black he knows it's watching them. 

His hand clenches in the wolf's pelt but neither of them seem to notice. 

He blinks and the shape is gone. 

Like a spell is broken, Keith darts forward and pulls the Ash-wood from the sill and closes the shutters. He runs to the kitchen and closes those too, and then the bathroom before finally retreating back to the safety of the wolf and the hearth. 

Fire blazes, climbing higher as it feels his anxiety spike because, while he can't see the thing anymore, he knows it's not gone. 

There's a sensation, like the sound of splintering ice or rock or bone—another crack but without the noise and it takes Keith a dizzying second for him to recognise the feeling of a ward being broken. 

Keith pales, spinning to face the side of the house it had come from and the low rumble from the wolf kicks up a notch.

Everything is quiet and still. 

It starts small, just the faintest scrape against the outside walls, like something brushed up against it. It moves along the side of Keith's home, slow and steady until the scrape sounds more like something is gouging itself into the wood. 

It goes quiet. 

There's a sound like breathing, heavy and wet and then something throws itself against the wall. It feels like the floor shudders with it and Keith can't stop himself from flinching against the wolf and they both back up against the hearth. 

A creak and then a thud and another and another, working its way around the house and along the wall. The door is locked. Keith knows the door is locked but the urge to go over and double check it is there, only to be beaten into submission by his desire to stay where he is. 

The door rattles in its frame and then strains like the thing is trying to get in and the the wolf’s snarl hits a new pitch. 

"It's okay,” Keith whispers. He can feel the way the wolf’s muscles cord under his fur. “It’s okay Shiro.” He isn't sure who he's trying to convince. "It can't get in.” 

He doesn’t know this. It broke through his wards like kindling. _He doesn’t know this._

The thumps and bangs continue as it circles the house. The yipping cry comes back but it sounds frustrated—angry at being denied. 

Keith crouches down and then settles onto the rug, pulling the wolf with him. 

Together they huddle, the heat from the fire warming their backs. 

After a long while the sounds fade and silence overtakes everything, like the world itself is afraid to breathe. Keith settles against the wolf, hand buried in the ruff of his neck, fingers stroking like a compulsion. 

He doesn't know how long he sits there, eyes fixed on the door and what might lay beyond, lurking in the dark. The prospect of his bed looks even more unappealing now than it had earlier. At his side the wolf breathes, alive and warm; the opposite of the cold bed and unwelcoming shadows his room has to offer. 

And at some point, between one blink and the next, Keith falls into an unsettled sleep.

xXx 

Keith wakes up the next morning feeling warm. He nuzzles into the warm surface, softer than his bed and clings to sleep. 

It takes a few minutes for the memory of last night to flood back in and Keith jolts upwards and out of the wolf's embrace. 

The wolf yelps at the sudden movement but Keith isn't listening, too busy suffused with the dregs of fear borne from the previous night. 

Something had come from the forest. 

Something had come to his _home._

_Something had broken through his wards._

Keith scrambles to his feet, whispering a vague apology to the wolf for disturbing him. 

He dresses quickly, shoving his feet into boots and throwing on his coat before he's halfway to the door. He can hear the wolf scrabbling after him as he tosses the front door open and steps outside. 

At first everything seems normal.   
  
The ground is covered in snow and frost, the looming forest in the distance quiet and still. But then he spots the gaping hole in the tree line where they've been pushed over by the root, branches hanging broken where something had forced its way through. With great reluctance, Keith walks over to the plum tree where he saw the thing standing, the wolf following close behind.

It all looks fine at first, but when he gets within touching distance he can feel a strange cold radiating from the tree and the smell of rot is thick in the air.

One of the old twisted branches is hanging limply to the ground, the wood half a foot from the trunk black and slick looking. It looks soft to the touch, like his fingers would sink into it if he pressed them against the branch and he backs away with a hard swallow.

He should do a lap of the house. He should find the break in the wards and then _fix_ them because they were still wide open for anything to slip through the gap but—

But. The plum tree had been on the property since before he'd arrived; had probably been there longer than the cottage itself. His gut was telling him that if he left it, it would be wilted by sunrise tomorrow, the rot spreading like a cancer throughout the tree.

Keith tightens his jaw. 

"Can you watch the break for me?” Keith ask’s the wolf.

He stares at Keith for a second and then leans forward, nose pressing gently against his shoulder. And then he's off, trotting around the house to where the wards hung broken.

Security sorted enough for his peace of mind, Keith gets to work. He retrieves the thick gloves he wears when handling poison and then the old saw Hunk had donated to him years ago. It's rusted and the handle leaves splinters sometimes but the important thing was that it was iron. 

It takes a few minutes to remove the branch at the trunk. When the iron cuts into the bark he can almost hear it hiss. He kicks the branch away when it's done and hops over the side of the fence. 

It looks like very little, laying there in the snow. But knowing where it comes from, what caused the blackening rot even now consuming it, he wants it _gone._

He nicks open the back of his wrist, crisscrossing over the slivering scars already there and paints his fingers red. It's too damp and cold for normal fire and he wants to be certain that whatever malevolence clings to it, burns with the wood. 

Fire rings the fallen branch and sets everything inside it alight. Snow hisses into steam, the greenery hidden below it catching as well but the wood seems to resist. It fights him, he can feel it—the way an unnatural cold seeps from the black spot. 

It doesn't want to burn, but luckily he's stubborn. 

He stays the entire time it takes to reduce it to ash, eyes fixed on the smoking wood. When the last bit crumbles away he relaxes, smothering the fire and checking to make sure he doesn't leave behind cinders. 

He leaves the ash for the elements to take care of. 

He walks back into his garden and barely manages to suppress a shiver at the feeling of broken wards washing over him. It aches like a missing tooth, still bloody and tender. 

Walking around the house he spots the wolf first. He's sitting by the fence, partially blocking Keith's view, ears up and alert. One flicks towards him as he approaches. 

"Okay,” Keith sighs, "Lets see the damage.”

The wolf moves out of the way and Keith has to bite back a gasp at the sight. 

It's not just the wards that have broken, though Keith can see the way the fractured edges flicker and spark, smoke even now curling from the ruined sigils. The rowan wood itself is broken, splintered inwards like it was shattered by a great blow and blackened at the edges.

Shattered like the branches around the gaping hole in the forest. 

The scent of rot hangs in the air.

Keith kneels, running a gentle hand over the wood but careful to avoid the black. It hasn't spread like with the branch and he wonders if it's because of the type of wood. Regardless, the edges will need to be trimmed back first, which meant a trip back into town—he'd left the leftovers with Hunk in the back of the forge for repairs just like this and he could redo the wards once the wood was in place. 

A small breeze kicks up and he shivers lightly without his scarf. 

He feels more then hears the wolf move and the next thing he knows, there's a line of heat at his back as the wolf angles himself to act as a windbreak. He catches himself just before he leans into his bulk. Instead Keith clears his throat and stands, brushing the snow from his legs.

"I need to go into the village to get wood to fix this,” he announces. The wolf seems to accept this right up until Keith adds, "I need you to stay here and guard the cottage.”

The wolf's head snaps towards him, ears pinned to his skull as his fur bristles and gums pull back just enough to reveal the bright white of his teeth. 

Keith flushes slightly and then shivers again.

"Listen,” Keith continues, "I know you don't like it. I don't really like it either, if I'm honest. But I just…” Keith trails off and runs a hand through his hair. "Something could walk right through this gap right now until it's fixed. Something could come into my _home._ ”

The thought of something invading his space makes his stomach clench and his heart rate pick up. The cottage wasn't much, it wasn't grand but it and the garden were his.

Something in his voice must reach the wolf because his hackles smooth over and his ears unpin. He still looks displeased but at this point Keith will take what he can get.

He steps closer. "Thank you, Shiro” he says sincerely and the name slips from him unbidden, his hand rises to cup the wolf's jaw.

Warm breath runs over his skin and the wolf gradually relaxes into his palm. He's a heavy weight in Keith's hand and like this, he's once again reminded just how much bigger the wolf is. The wolf snuffles quietly and then jolts, pulling away to nose at the fresh cut on the back of his wrist.

"Oh,” Keith says, a thin, wry smile working its way across his lips. "I had to burn the branch.”

Grey eyes stare down at him and slowly, the wolf bends down. Fur brushes against his skin and the wolf waits, like he's waiting for Keith to pull away. When he doesn't, a gust of warm breath is all the warning Keith gets before a long wet tongue laves over the cut.

Keith ruthlessly smothers his instinct to flinch back and instead just watches, wide eyed. The wolf doesn't lap at his skin for long, just enough to clean away the blood that had smeared around the cut. Once the faint scrape of a fang sends lightning arching up Keith's spine but otherwise the wolf is achingly careful. Keith doesn't think he breathes at all until he finally pulls away and the cold begins to set in.

"Thanks.” His voice comes out as a rasp. 

The wolf stares at him for a moment longer and then makes a small noise, sitting down beside the broken fence. He looks outwards, over the field and the brush and the road leading to the village, looking for all intents and purposes like a guard dog.

"Well, all right then,” Keith mutters, feeling oddly tense. The skin of his wrist feels cold and hot all at once. "I'll go pack and I'll be back soon hopefully.”

An ear flicks in acknowledgment and Keith nods, half to himself, turning back towards the house.

As he's walking up the stairs, tallying up in his head how much of the wood he needs, he happens to look up.

Hanging above the door is the horseshoe. It sits solid and still, horns pointed towards the sky.

And around it in a perfect outline, are the familiar signs of scorch marks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many thoughts about the effectiveness of divination and fortune telling in this universe, especially in regards to things like prophecy. 
> 
> Someone ask me so I can have an excuse to talk about it.


	4. Decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every now and then he catches something, like a whisper at the edge of his hearing. It’s quiet and indistinct enough that he can’t tell where it’s coming from—if its from above, carried on hidden wings or if its drifting in from the forest. 
> 
> In the end he’s not sure it matters, not when it sounds as tentative as he feels.

Keith walks swiftly to the village after that. 

It's dark out, despite nearing midday. Clouds hang thick in the sky promising either rain or snow; possibly both if they were unlucky and so he picks up the pace.

In the low light, the ice and frost touched landscape glitters and there’s a strange beauty to the stillness. In all his years living in this place, he’s never experienced a winter with such a deepening grip on the land, and while its enchanting in a cold way it’s also alien to him; a boy with fire and desert running through his veins. A tiny part of him wants to pause a moment to take it in but the rest of him rebels at the idea, especially with the world around him existing in an eerie quiet and the knowledge of what he’s left behind him dogging his steps. 

Every now and then he catches something, like a whisper at the edge of his hearing. It’s quiet and indistinct enough that he can’t tell where it’s coming from—if its from above, carried on hidden wings or if its drifting in from the forest. 

In the end he’s not sure it matters, not when it sounds as tentative as he feels. 

A shiver works its way up Keith’s spine. 

After a night spent curled up against him, Keith finds himself keenly feeling the wolf's absence. He feels vulnerable, like at some point in the days and weeks of the wolf constantly dogging his steps he's grown accustomed to having someone at his back. It's disconcerting and yet he can't find it in himself to want to change it, and merely wishes that he didn't have to go without. 

The wind picks up, cutting cold against his exposed skin. It kicks up powder as it goes and the looming trees at his side fade in and out of sight like a regiment of towering ghosts, and for a split second the sound goes hollow and keening, like a great beast howling somewhere out in the forest.

Keith picks up the pace, long legs eating up the frozen earth.

It doesn't take long for the village to come into sight but as he enters the fringes of it, beelining for the smithy, he can't help but notice that it feels subdued. It’s later than he usually arrives and while the outer reaches of the village are mostly populated by hunters and trappers, he can usually spot people going to and fro on their business. 

Today there’s no one, just empty streets, darkened windows and the occasional odd glint of metal in the low light.

The smithy comes into sight and is a welcome change from the quiet coldness of the rest of the buildings. He kicks the snow from his boots and follows the sounds coming from the forge. The whisper of the fire greet him when he steps inside, chased by the clang of hammer on metal. Hunk is working, arms swinging in time with the sparks. He's surprised to see Buttercup laying on the bench, her green eyes falling shut in a slow blink of greeting before going back to watching her human work. 

It's odd. Buttercup hates the forge. Brushing aside the unease, Keith knocks politely on the door. 

Hunk startles anyway. 

"The hel—oh, Keith it's just you.” Hunk shifts about, hands clutching at his tools. 

Keith's brow furrows, alarm skittering up his spine. 

There are bags under Hunks eye, not too noticeable but the fact that they're there at all is cause for concern. His friend looks jittery, worried as he continues clutching at the heavy hammer in his hand. 

"What's wrong,” Keith demands, stepping into the room. 

Hunk laughs, sounding strained. "Wrong? Nothing—nothing's _wrong_ Keith, why would you say that?”

"Because you look like you're about to pass out.” Keith gently works the hammer from Hunk's hand and ushers him into a chair. 

"Now that's an exaggeration,” Hunk protests, only to fall silent when Keith raises an eyebrow. 

"Okay,” he says deflating, "You might be right.”

"What's wrong?” Keith asks again. 

Hunk fidgets in place. 

"Hunk,” Keith grits out, only growing more alarmed as the seconds pass. 

Hunk sighs. “So many things Keith—like, _so_ many things.” He slumps into the chair and the old wood creaks ever so slightly with his shifting weight. “Yesterday after you left, James and Kinkade came back around. They'd been out in the woods doing some hunting for Sal and—”

Hunk trails off and Keith gestures for him to continue. 

“They were telling me,” he continues, looking increasingly uncomfortable, "that they found something after about an hour. Came around a ridge and, well—at first they smelt it. Like something rotting.”

Keiths spine straightens. 

Hunk looks vaguely nauseous. “They found them a few minutes later. A whole herd of deer, just—just laying dead in a clearing.”

Keith goes still. "Not eaten?” Hunk shakes his head slowly. “Did they see any tracks?”

Hunk shakes his head. "They said they didn’t stick around to get more than a glance but from what they _did_ see? There weren’t any tracks. Just a couple of broken branches up high enough that James thought they were probably caused by the strong winds.”

Hunk pauses again. 

"Was that it?” Keith asks hesitantly. 

Hunk sighs gustily. “…No. No—they came by again this morning. Some of Iverson’s cattle were killed last night.”

They sank back into silence, broken only by the barely-there hissing of the fire.

“Let me guess,” Keith says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Same as the deer?”

“More or less. None of them were eaten, at least not that they could tell. Just...torn apart. Kinkade honestly didn’t tell me much about it, though he did ask me to tell you that Iverson wants you to come by.”

Keith’s eyebrow rises. “Oh?”

“Yeah, weird right? I always thought he’d have to be actively holding a bone in place to ask for your help.” Hunk blinks. “Uhh, no offence buddy.”

Keith waves him off. “None taken.”

It was well known that he and Iverson didn’t exactly see eye to eye. There’d been the odd occasion where they’d been forced to deal with each other—but most of the time they got by through careful avoidance.

Keith stares over Hunks shoulders, thinking. 

"Keith?” Hunk touches his arm gently. "You alright buddy?”

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.” Keith blinks and looks up at him. "Did they say what the bodies looked like? The cattle, I mean.”

Hunk goes pale and swallows hard. "Bad. Like they'd been torn apart by something, just like the deer in the woods.” Abruptly he chuckles, though he doesn't sound happy. "I don't suppose your wolf got hungry?”

He sounds almost hopeful and his face falls when Keith shakes his head. "He was with me all of last night.”

“Of course he was,” Hunk says, sounding disappointed. 

Hunk stands from the chair and begins to putter around. As far as Keith can tell there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what he’s doing—picking up the odd nut and bolt, fidgeting with bits of scrap metal that have been twisted into odd shapes. Stalling, Keith realises after a moment, something like dread digging its fingers into his ribcage. There’s a nervous energy around his friend that Keith honestly doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. With this new threat encroaching on their lives, Hunk has been worried—worried for Keith and worried for his other friends amongst the village—but what Keith sees now is different. 

It’s not worry or disgust, or the unease that had been present while he told Keith about the animals—no. This was deeper than that and it looked a lot like fear. 

“Hunk?” Keith questions lightly.

His worn hands clench tight around the twisted metal in his hands.

“…I think there was something outside my house last night,” Hunk admits quietly. 

Keith goes rigid. 

Hunk continues, like he hasn't just poured ice down Keith's spine. "I was at home when I remembered that I'd left something in the smithy. I was going to go get it, put my boots on and everything only Buttercup wouldn't let me leave.”

Both of them look at the cat sitting on the table top, looking for all the worlds like she was ignoring them. 

"I laughed it off at first but she got real insistent; clawed right through my pants leg at one point so I gave up.” Hunk breaks off to run a hand over Buttercup's fur and she purrs, a soft rumble. "I figured it wasn't worth it to try and leave if I was just going to wind up bloody for it, so I went and got ready for bed.”

"And then...?” Keith isn't sure he wants to know. 

Hunk looks out the cloudy forge window, marked heavily with soot. Outside the wind whips snow into a frenzy, blotting out the sun and the twisting shadows cast by the shifting light has Keith going cold despite the sweltering heat from the fire. 

"I was lying there, trying to fall asleep and I—I heard something…” Hunk's eyes go dark with the memory. "I thought I was dreaming at first; it was like a scratching sound coming from outside my window—like an old tree branch or someones nails. I remember rolling over in bed to look but it was just…black outside, like a tar pit. Only the longer I looked, the more I was convinced something was staring back at me.” Hunk shakes his head. "I don't know anything about the stuff in the woods, that's your department. But Keith, I _know_ something was there. I felt it and it didn't feel nice.”

“I believe you,” Keith says quietly.

Hunk sniffs. “Good—I mean, I didn’t think you wouldn’t, but—”

“No—I get it.” He really does. It’s hard, Keith knows, to believe that people will trust in something with no proof. 

“So.” Hunk lets the metal drop from his hands and it shimmers in the low light. “Is there any chance at all that my nighttime visitor wasn’t the same thing that was responsible for slaughtering a bunch of animals?” 

Keith snorts bitterly. “I doubt it, but—” He straightens, brushing a spot of ash from his sleeve. “One way to find out.”

Keith turns and walks out if the forge, Hunk and Buttercup following close behind. He gets to the entrance to the smithy and keeps going, heading straight out into the street. He has to brace himself as he walks, small flurries of snow flying into his eyes from where its been kicked up by the breeze. In spite of that it takes less than five minutes to get to Hunks house and he walks up the stairs, straight to the door and looks up. 

Sure enough, the horseshoe is still hanging there and just like at Keith's home, it's surrounded by dark marks. 

"What...?” Hunk walks up beside him, head craned back. "What is that?”

"Soot,” Keith replies tersely. "The horseshoe burnt itself into the wood last night when it kept the thing out of your house.”

"Are you sure?” Hunk asks. 

Keith nods. "Same thing happened to me. I woke up and something was outside my home. It broke through my wards _and_ the rowan wood fence Hunk; if it weren't for the horseshoe it might have gotten in.”

Hunk laughs and it sounds faintly hysterical. "So my horseshoes saved our lives last night?”

"Yes.” And maybe others as well, Keith thinks, when he recalls Hunk talking about giving them out to the trappers.

"So,” Hunk says while they're walking back to the smithy. “I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

“From the look on your face, you think you know what this is, right?”

"It's what it always seems to be lately.” Keith knows he sounds tired and Hunk gives him a sympathetic look. "The thing from the forest, the one that I keep running into.” Again and again regardless of the fact that Keith hasn’t been looking for it. Which, he thinks, is probably a sign that _its_ been looking for _him_.

"It managed to get out of the forest, huh,” Hunk says grimly. 

"Yes. Last night—I heard it break out.”

"But how?” Hunk stops at the door, turning to look at Keith. "Doesn't this like, go against the laws?”

Keith shrugs and then freezes. He looks up at the sky and though it's daylight now, he remembers last night. 

"It was a new moon last night.” The sky had been empty and black, just like the thing. “It’s a creature of dark and moonless nights. It must’ve finally been strong enough to break the barrier.”

"Great,” Hunk says emphatically. "Does that mean you know what it is?”

"Not at all,” Keith says as he steps around Hunk and into the smithy. "There are plenty of creatures that fit that description.”

"Okay. Cool—fantastic. _Is it going to come back?_ ”

Keith slows to a stop and looks at Hunk. 

His friend shrugs. "You said moonless nights. Does that mean it's going to be stuck in the forest until the next new moon?”

"When are we ever that lucky?”

"Good point.” Hunk slumps slightly. "Okay, so my other question is this; if this thing is so dangerous why wasn’t anyone else visited last night? It had to have gone past other houses to get to mine and I feel like there would’ve been more of an uproar if the rest of the village had a monster looking in through their windows. Only, so far the only people who seem to have gotten a visit are you, me and Iverson.”

Keith leans against a bench, lips turning down as he frowns in thought. It was a good point. Keith has felt nothing but a deep seated malice coming from this thing, nothing that would suggest that it would even understand the concept of mercy. So why pass up easier targets and head straight for Hunk?

Keith thinks about the hush settled over the village and wonders if maybe Hunk is wrong in his guess.

“Did you give out any of those horseshoes?” Keith asks instead.

Hunk starts. “Uh, yeah actually. When Kinkade and James came by yesterday I gave them a bunch and told them to hand them out if they could convince the others to take them.”

Suddenly the glimpses of metal make sense. “I think some of the other hunters and trappers took them. I saw some up when I was walking up.

“Oh! Well, that’s good.”

Keith hums and Hunk cocks his head at him. “You think there’s something else?”

“Maybe.” It had gone to his home first—had broken out of the forest and come straight for him. “It might have followed me here somehow,” he admits. 

“It does seem to have a thing for you,” Hunk agrees quietly.

Keith shrugs. “Things that dark rarely like fire.”

“And you’re the biggest one around.” Hunk rolls his shoulders and then cracks his knuckles. “You take whatever wood you need, I'm going to start working on some more horseshoes.”

Keith walks past him, towards the back room. "How many are you going to make?”

Hunk shrugs. "How many doors are there in this village?”

xXx

It takes four hours for Keith to get the fencing and the wards fixed to his liking. 

The wolf stays with him throughout, seemingly unbothered by the wood shavings, the lightly falling snow and the sharp tang of magic that fills the air as he weaves the broken edges back together. 

He makes a small sound, distressed, when Keith decides to strengthen the wards entirely and opens the cut back up where it's begun to scab over. 

Grey eyes follow Keith's hands as he dips his fingers into the cut and repaints the sigils lining the fence. 

It's painstaking work and right until the very end he can feel the way it pulls at him, draining energy and heat alike. It's a relief when he paints the last one with chilled fingers. Smoke curls up from the wood, the sigil glowing a hot red before fading into a dark mark in the wood. 

Keith sways and stumbles back into the bulk of the wolf.

He doesn't even flinch under Keith's weight. The wolf shifts slightly, just enough to coax Keith's arm over his neck and together they walk back to the cottage. Keith can feel the way the wolf's muscles flex under his coat; solid and unyielding. 

He feels like a furnace compared to the chill of the air—even compared to the warmth of the hearth fire which springs to life from sleeping coals as soon as he steps through the doorway. The wolf guides him over to the fire and Keith sinks down gratefully. Like this, the wolf towers over him and Keith looks up at him with bleary eyes.

"Sit with me?”

After a moment's hesitation, the wolf lowers himself down beside Keith. He doesn't touch Keith, laying a few inches away from him, head resting on his paws. All of a sudden it's like a divide has gone up between them, one that hadn't existed moments earlier, or last night or the first day the wolf had stepped inside and let Keith touch him. 

Maybe it's all in Keith's head. He's tired and shivery with the come down he always gets from tapping directly into his blood without adrenaline to keep him going.

Keith lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

"I'm cold,” he says and it's true. 

The fire wasn't really helping even if he found the familiar glow comforting. It wasn't enough thought; quietly he found himself craving something more.

The wolf makes a soft sound and edges closer. 

Keith huffs out a breath that feels scraped from the very bottom of his lungs, heavy and oddly tender. He resists the urge to curl up.

"I'm _cold,_ ” Keith repeats. His voice comes out smaller that he can truly justify. 

The wolf seems to hesitate but then he's standing, stepping forward until one of his forepaws is over Keith. He lowers himself carefully until his huge head is resting against Keith's chest. 

Keith's breath shudders out of him. The weight is a lot but it’s…pleasant. As pleasant as the heat which immediately begins to sink into Keith. Humming happily, Keith scrubs his hands through the ruff of his neck, doing his best to breathe while trapped under his weight. 

Feeling comes back to his hands, seeping into his fingers. 

Laying together like this he can even feel the wolf's heart, beating like a drum in his barrel chest. It's oddly fast for a creature his size but the longer they lie there together, the more even it becomes. 

Once when he was traveling through one of the larger cities to the west, long long before he ever found this village, he saw a metronome slowly ticking in a music shop. It glittered in the light, brass accents shined to a high polish and Keith had stood there, oddly mesmerised by the steady ticking. 

The wolf's heartbeat reminds him of that. 

It slows and then settles into its ready rhythm and he can feel the way his eyes begin to grow heavy.

There's a snuffling sound and the wolf shifts slightly. Keith makes a small sound, displeased, when the wolf stands and the warmth and weight goes away but then the wolf rumbles and paws nudge at his knees and his thighs.

Keith parts them easily, eyes opening to watch as the wolf settles back over him—slipping into the cradle of his thighs instead of laying half over his stomach. 

Keith tuck an arm back under his head and looks down his own chest into warm grey eyes while his other hand buries itself into thick fur again. He looks up at his ceiling and lets his eyes fall shut, luxuriating in the sensation. The wolf is still making that purr-like rumble and it sinks deep into Keith's own chest, loud enough to rattle his bones. His thighs ache in a vaguely familiar way, spread as they are by the wide bulk of the wolf's body. The strokes of his hand grow slower and slower until they stop completely, his arm weighed down by sap sweet drowsiness. The feeling that slowly steals over him is decadent, warm in its softness. 

He rarely feels this good after being so drained. He finds himself wanting to keep this moment, tucked away in his chest like a live ember. 

He lets his arm drop against his chest, just shy of the wolf's muzzle and lays there, half his way into sleep. 

The first touch has him rising up out of that soft black place, eyelids fluttering open like a startled sparrow. 

The wolf's eyes are still fixed on him. His jaws are open, just enough that Keith can catch glimpses of his fangs in the flickering light, the faintest hints of his black gums. Warm breath ghosts over his skin and Keith watches as those jaws open wider—watches as a long red tongue drags itself across the still bloody cut on his arm.

It's a slower, softer encore to the scene earlier in the day. There's no desire to flinch away this time, just the mellow heaviness settling its way into his bones from the warmth and weight of the wolf. 

His eyes track the way the wolf's tongue laves over his skin in slow, deliberate strokes, washing away the dried blood that was staining his skin. The last of it disappears, but unlike last time, the wolf doesn't stop. Instead he slows, long red tongue curling around the delicate bone of Keith's wrist. Keith moves his arm, lifting it just ever so slightly off his own chest and the rumble in the wolf's chest kicks up a notch. Teeth graze against his soft skin as his jaws open just enough to cradle his arm inside his maw. 

The sharp points press into his flesh but don't break it and they both stay like that for a long moment, staring at each other. Sparks skitter up his spine at the sensation; at knowing that if the wolf wanted to, he could take his arm with the faintest snap of his jaws and at knowing that he _wouldn’t._

Keith didn’t know what the wolf was exactly; a demon or fey, a yokai or even a shifter of some kind.

He does think— _knows_ that he’s his friend. 

The wolf pulls away, dragging his fangs over Keith's skin whilst carefully avoiding the cut. Keith reaches out and cups his jaw and the wolf nuzzles lightly into the palm of his hand. A finger traces along the seam of black lips and the white fur there, stained red with his own blood.

That tongue flicks out again, cleaning away the discolouration and catching at the edges of his fingers. 

"Good boy,” Keith murmurs, eyes sliding shut.

He'll sleep and then deal with everything else still waiting for him.

xXx

Keith wakes up feeling clearer as well as overheated. 

The heavy chill caused by remaking the wards has lifted even if his eyes feel gritty with the short sleep and his head muzzy. The fire jumps in the hearth now that he’s awake, crackling ever so slightly, but it’s not where the overwhelming heat is coming from. 

The wolf is a heavy weight on his chest, fully caught in sleep. Keith shifts a little and can barely bite back the groan that comes from the ache of being trapped in one position for so long, thighs still spread under the wolf and spine aching from its long contact with the floor. 

Keith turns his head to look out the window, intending to judge the hour by the light outside, but the shutters are still barred shut. 

Keith’s stomach twists and he shivers despite the heat. 

He can see the fainted bit of light seeping in from around the seams and he releases the breath stoppered up in his chest, slow and steady. He guesses he’s been asleep for a few hours. The dull light probably means it’s approaching dusk and as soon as he thinks that, his stomach growls. 

Keith lets his head thunk back to the floor with a soft huff of laughter. He wants sugar cookies. And jam. And a dozen other sweet things that run through his mind which was par for the course when he was like this. Keith wriggles slightly, a leg bending till he has one foot planted firmly against the floor but the wolf merely grumbles, a sleeping dead weight against him. 

Keith flops back down with a grunt, trying not to squirm. In the hearth, the fire flickers and crackles, mocking him lightly. The hazy cotton of sleep is falling away and left behind is the uncomfortable twist of hunger and, somewhere below that, buried far enough that at first he doesn’t recognise it, is the faintest hint of _need,_ warm like a spark. 

He lays there, staring up at the ceiling. 

If he were fully awake he thinks he would have struggled out from under the wolf, regardless of the effort but, as he is he merely flushes lightly and goes still. 

It’s a low smoulder in his gut; more of an afterthought than anything else. If he were waking in his bed he probably wouldn’t have even bothered sliding his hand under worn cotton to take care of it.

He rarely did if he was honest. Most times it was never more than something he could ignore, an instinct he could control. It’s one of the things which made Hunk’s assumption even more laughable—Keith can’t remember the last time he took someone into his bed—before he came to the village at least, when he was travelling through one of the towns. He has hazy memories of warm hands on cold nights but he’s never spared a second thought for them. 

Already the spark is fading and Keith takes a deep breath, chest struggling to rise fully under the weight of the wolf. 

By the time he hits ten the spark’s fully gone and the hunger has completely taken over. 

“Hey.” The wolf doesn’t stir even when Keith strokes a soft hand over his ears. “Wake up.”

Still nothing. Keith gently pokes his jaw and when that still illicits no response, he gives up—braces a foot firmly against the ground and then _lifts_. 

It’s like shifting a soft furry boulder. There’s a moment where they’re both suspended—the wolf’s eyes blink open in alarm, the flickering fire turning the grey to a warm taupe—then there’s a loud yelp as the gravity sends the wolf toppling off him and onto the floor. 

Keith props himself up and watches as the wolf scrambles to right himself. When he finally manages to do so his eyes are wide and betrayed. 

“Thats what you get for not waking up,” Keith tells him flatly, “even when I poke you.”

The wolf makes a disgruntled noise, somewhere between a whine and a growl, but stops when Keith’s stomach rumbles.

Keith levers himself up into standing, groaning as his spine cracks. He can feel the beginning of pins and needles building in one of his legs now that he’s standing and he taps his heel against the floor, in a vain attempt to get rid of it. He limps into the kitchen and pulls out an assortment of food; his cookies, one of which he shoves whole into his mouth as he carries the rest over to the table. 

The wolf is watching him, great head cocked to the side. He sees his ears perk up when Keith brings out a fews strips of dried venison and the rest of the chicken; dividing it onto two plates, one with the last of the roasted vegetables and the other without. 

The tingling in his foot fades as he finishes his cookie and sits down to eat. The wolf snaps up his half of the chicken while Keith eats in silence, and then spends the rest of the time gnawing on the deer Keith hands to him. The wolf takes it from his fingers delicately, fangs minding his skin.

Absently, Keith inspects the cut on his wrist as he chews. He can feel the way the skin pulls and can see the slowly forming scab but he notices that when he flexes his grip there’s no pain. He’ll put some salve on it before he goes to sleep just in case but he can’t help but think it’s odd. 

He washes the plates in comfortable silence and slips into his sleep clothes the same way. Already the wolf seems to be dozing off by the fire and Keith can feel it too—despite having slept a few hours already he can feel his eyes growing heavy as he stands there. 

He forces himself to finish up though. He waters the Ash-wood, delighted to see the small bud already beginning to form. He puts salve on his cut and covers it for the night, knowing there’s a high dance that if he doesn’t he’ll wake the next morning to a tacky wrist and red smears on his sheets. 

And finally he checks the locks. 

First the kitchen and then the bathroom windows—their shutters still locked but he can’t stop himself from double checking. He does the same with the window where the Ash-wood sits, before checking the door. He slides the locks into place and rattles the handle just in case and then stands there, hand against the wood.

He can feel the wards around his garden. They glow bright and strong with their renewal—the difference between now and before is startling and he can’t help but feel something bitter in the pit of his stomach at the realisation that he truly hadn’t been doing his best. At some point he’d grown sloppy, sloppy enough that he’d let something in.

The horseshoe still hangs above the door. He can’t see it but he can feel it. It’s not like his own wards, hot like fire, but rather it’s subdued and steady; solid like earth.

Keith raps his knuckles against the wood once and then steps away. 

He turns to the wolf and finds him already watching. 

Keith shifts in place, toes curling against the floor. “Goodnight,” he says eventually. 

The wolf stares a second longer before bowing his head, slow and deliberate. Keith leaves him by the fire and walks back to his room.

Like the previous night his room is cold and unwelcoming when he gets there. This night though, there’s an added sense of unease as he stands with his back to his shuttered window before sliding under the sheets. He lays, facing away from the window until it grows too uncomfortable to bear and he turns, eyes fixed on the wooden slats. 

He can’t see what’s beyond them but he can picture it when he closes his eyes; his small tiny garden and then the icy field stretching off into the distance from east to west. And then beyond that, the woods. He can hear the wind blowing outside, a faint distant howl. It’s enough to send the trees swaying, branches creaking and groaning as they bend under its onslaught. 

He’d been telling the truth when he’d told Hunk that he didn’t know if it would be able to walk freely, now that it had passed through the barrier trees once, or if it would be confined to the deepening shadows of the woods until the next new moon. 

It was easy to picture it though—a tall misshapen figure, standing out in the field, its eyes fixed on his home. 

A dark shadow slipping into the village, looking for a house unprotected by the iron of the horseshoes. 

Corralled animals in their barns and paddocks, unable to flee as it skitters from the woods on its strange legs. 

A shiver works itself up his spine as, somewhere, out in the black beyond his room and his garden, a familiar cry echoes out across the valley. 

xXx

Dreams that night come to him half formed at best. The familiar lick of pain running over the backs of his hands and arms; the smell of copper and ash caught on the breeze and the sharp bite of snow in his lungs. The shadows are tacky, clinging to him like something alive, staining his skin like bruises. 

He’s swallowed by them and as the dark closes in he hears a _h o w l_

Keith wakes with a start, the smell of rot lingering in his nose as his breath shudders out of his chest. 

He lets himself sink back into his blankets, eyes falling shut. His room is still mostly dark, the faint light peaking in through the cracks of his shutters only barely enough to see by. He listens. The cottage is filled with its usual sounds; the faint creak of wood coming from the attic, the sound of the hearth fire hissing and crackling as it begins to stir. There’s the faint whuffing breaths of the wolf, still deep with sleep and below it all, there’s the constant drone of the wind. 

It whips across the field stirring white powder into the air, lashing at the twisted branches of the trees. 

It takes a while for him force his limbs to move. He rolls out of bed, toes curling against the cold floor and blanket wrapped around him like a cape. The living space in comparison to his room, is almost cheerful in its warmth. The fire crackles a greeting as he goes to feed it another log, stepping carefully around the solid bulk of the wolf where he’s still laying sprawled over the carpet and dead to the world. 

Keith makes himself tea and breakfast in silence, yawning wide enough that his jaw twinges uncomfortably. 

Outside the light is thin and watery, almost fragile looking. When he goes to tend to the ash-wood he spends a moment just looking out the window and across the field. In the distance he can see the tree line and the gaping hole in the wall of trees. 

It’s smaller than it had been the day before, like Daibazaal was already patching it up. The branches from the surrounding trees were bowing inwards and he could see the faint signs of brambles and skeletal looking vines sprouting up from the snow. 

There’s a sound from behind him and Keith startles slightly. The fire flares gently before settling as Keith turns to watch the wolf. He stretches, tail swishing lightly over the fabric of the rug and then fixes Keith with bright grey eyes. 

“Morning,” Keith murmurs quietly, the corner of his mouth ticking up as the wolf yawns, fangs flashing. 

Keith opens the front door and leaves it hanging wide as he goes to clean his mug. He hears the wolf leave, claws clicking as he pads out of the cottage. 

Keith goes and washes his face, the cold water banishing the last lingering touch of sleep. While he’s leaning over the basin he feels the faintest rush of heat through his veins, at odds with the chill from the water. The wolf he assumes, crossing the ward lines. 

He dresses quickly, grabbing one of the tunics he’d finished embroidering. The charcoal grey fabric is warm and the jewel bright red thread seems to shimmer as the sleeves settle about his wrist. 

He’s tucking his battered red scarf about his neck as he steps out the door. His pack is slung over one shoulder, old coat swishing about his knees. He hooks an ankle over the edge of the door and skilfully tugs it shut without his hands. 

The wolf is nowhere to be seen but after a seconds hesitation, Keith puts it out of his mind. The world around him is painted in shades of white and grey and the wolf could be laying in the middle of the field and he doubts that he’d see him. 

Besides, he tells himself, the wolf is his guest not his prisoner. 

Keith checks his garden first, humming lightly as he takes in the sight of plants and vines hanging heavy with fruit and vegetables. Nothing is quite ready to harvest yet but it’s all growing well which is a blessing in and of itself.

Keith doesn’t know why the thing from the forest didn’t destroy his plants the way it almost killed the old plum tree—doesn’t know if that in and of itself was just an accident or if it physically couldn’t cross the stone etched wards the way it did the others. 

It made a kind of sense, he thinks, thumb rubbing absently against one of the fire etched sigils. Wards are only as strong as their anchor point. If the wood broke first—rotting under the creatures touch—then it stands to reason that the wards themselves wouldn’t have held, at least not under a new moon when it was strong enough to break even Daibazaal’s boundaries. 

Keith stands and brushes the snow from his knees. 

It’s a theory and a good one, though he has no real way to test it and in the end it doesn’t really help him. Knowing if wards anchored in wood are weaker against the creature only get’s him so far—it’s not like he can divert a river to encompass the village or his home and there’s a reason why he doesn’t have a stone fence.

He checks the fence line almost obsessively after that. Objectively he knows that there’ll be no difference between now and yesterday but it almost feels like a compulsion. The rowan wood rings his home unbroken and when he reaches out he can feel his wards, fresh and strong and radiating heat like a haze. Keith plucks at a strand and feels the wards reverberate with it like a spiders web. It sings to him, clear and crystalline and something in the sound has the tightness in his chest unclenching ever so slightly. 

In the end the wards and the fence might not _stop_ the creature but they’d slow it down and, if push came to shove, then Keith at least knew that it was vulnerable to fire. 

To fire and, apparently, to iron.

Keith lets his gaze drift back over to his doorway and the innocuous piece of metal hanging over the door. 

The scorch marks around it stood out even at a distance. It was difficult to imagine that such a small thing had kept the creature out of his home, as well as others. 

Keith’s nails tap out a rhythm against the wood, a small meandering tune as his thoughts ran wild. He had more theories about that as well but again, little time and no real ability to test them. With a small huff that sends the air in front of his face white, Keith opens his gate and heads out.

The field in front of him looks barren. Frost clings to the faint shape of grass and bare scrub, twinkling slightly in the dull light and the air is filled with shapes—snow and maybe fog twisting through it, but no wings or transparent limbs this time. He starts walking, footsteps uncomfortable loud with the crunching of ice. The distance between him and Daibazaal gets smaller with every passing second, its shadows spilling across the field like spilled ink on paper. 

The hole gapes in front of him like a torn mouth.

This close he can see that he was right. The gap is already starting to fill in, trees and plants already working to weave itself back together but even then the signs of violence are still stark. Two trees lay splintered on the ground like smashed toys, and limp branches hang creaking in the wind. Mostly, all he can smell is cold, sharp and clear but somewhere buried under that is the now familiar smell of rot.

He can see it on the trees, blackness smudged against the bark, glistening in the low light. When he casts his eyes down he can see that the forest floor is dark, like an oil spill. 

Like the elk he’d found, broken and left to rot.

And, more than likely, like the cattle and deer too.

Keith leaves the trees and the stained earth. Unlike the wood of his fence and the poor plum tree, Daibazaal can fend for itself against the rot. If he concentrates he can almost feel it, heavy in the air like ozone.

He hitches his pack higher on his shoulder and turns away from the forest, not towards his home, but in the vague direction of the village. 

He has man to see about some cattle. 

xXx

He’s been walking for about an hour when he suddenly gets the feeling that he’s not alone. 

Around him the world is mostly white, the vague smudge to his left, the village and the looming blackness to his right, the forest. It’s quiet, just him and wind and the faint susurration of snow against snow. But between one step and the next he feels it.

He’s not surprised when he looks to his right in time to watch the wolf slip out from between the distant trees. He looks almost like a spirit, form flickering with the dancing snow, white on white. Keith smiles faintly, tucks his scarf a bit tighter around his neck and then keeps going, letting himself fall into step with the wolf naturally.

Every now and then, the knuckles of his right hand brush against white fur. He can feel the heat radiating off the wolf.

The walk in silence together for a solid half an hour. Every now and then the wolf will drift off to inspect something and, on one occasion, disappears off entirely into the trees and comes back ten minutes later licking red away from his muzzle. It’s a comfortable quiet and Keith can’t stop the feeling of vague disappointment that tumbles through him as the first signs of Iverson’s farm come into view. 

It’s about as far off from the town as Keith’s place is, albeit on the opposite side. Fence posts rise up out of the snow at regular intervals, and the path towards the small house is clear and well maintained unlike Keiths. 

The change in the air comes swift and silent. As he walks, the relaxed air about Keith drips away like melting ice. 

_D r i p_

_D r i p_

_D r i p_

A glance to the side tells him that the wolf feels it too, fur bristling along the nape of his neck. The wind howls for a second, and Keith’s vision whites out and he comes to a stop, the snap of a hidden branch echoing in the distance. 

Keith licks his lips, feels the sting from where they’ve become chapped with the cold air. 

“I need you to hang back for a while, can you do that for me?” A quick glance to the side and he can see grey eyes on him, sharp and piercing. “I need to talk to the owner of this farm but I don’t know how he’ll feel about having a huge wolf lurking about his property.”

There’s a soft rumble under the strains of the wind and Keith almost smiles. 

“Yeah, I don’t like it either but this is going to be difficult enough without borrowing trouble. We don’t exactly get along,” Keith says quietly, “and he’s probably already on edge.”

They stand there at a stalemate for a few beats before the wolf steps forward and gently presses his nose to Keith’s shoulder. Before he has a chance to do anything more than feel the corner of his mouth tick up, the wolf’s gone, heat vanishing with him like an afterimage as he disappears into the white. 

Keith waits a moment and then two before continuing on.

He can hear the sound of hidden gravel crunching beneath his feet as he walks up the path towards the house. This close he can smell something foul in the air, can feel the way something in the air feels off.

The wood of the porch creaks under his weight as he walks up to the front door. The hollow thuds of his fist against the wood echo unanswered and he tries one more time before wandering over to the window beside it. He peers through the old glass but can’t see anyone inside.

“Iverson!” Keith calls. “Iverson, you in there? It’s Keith.”

No answer.

Growing increasingly unsettled, Keith steps away, intending to head down and around when a familiar sight catches the corner of his eye.

Iron and scorch marks. Another one of Hunk’s horseshoes. 

Keith jumps the last two steps and walks around the side of the building. Off in the distance he can see the walls of the barn rise up and out of the white, severe against the soft blankness of the world around them.

He hears a sound coming from around the other side of the structure. A shiver resonates its way through him, right down to the marrow as he jumps the fence and cuts straight across to the barn. The visibility is almost down to nothing and he has to take a moment to breathe warmth into the runes of his scarf and raise it over his mouth and nose to combat the cold. He can barely see the barn and he can only guess the direction the wolf went off in.

Unease continues to melt down his spine with every step, a steady—

_D r i p_

_D r i p_

_D r i p_

Powdered snow covers his coat even as it hisses off his scarf in licks of steam. 

One hand finds the barn wall and he walks along it, fingers trailing along the old wood. He can feel the whorls and the jagged edges of splinters as he goes and the cold that’s seeped into the planks. He rounds a corner and gets to the doors only to find them hanging open, swinging freely on their hinges. A quick glance inside reveals that it’s empty—no cattle and no people—just hay, a few stalls and tools, and the lingering smell of animal.

The dark inside is deep and cold.

Keith leaves the doors as is and continues around the barn.

He’s almost at the corner he thinks when he hears another sound, something soft like the movement of dirt.

He slows to a crawl, one hand pulling back the cuff on his injured wrist, ready and willing to tear open the slowly healing cut there. The wind has risen to a fever pitch and the light is darkening as clouds move across the sky to obscure the weak sun.

He can see the corner of barn and nothing beyond it and the feeling runs down like a soft—

_D r i p_

_D r i p_

_D r i p_

Keith presses himself back against the wall, breathes deep for a second and _there_ —he can smell it again, that faint foulness in the air, beneath the cold. There’s a tiny stab of pain at his wrist and the warm trickle of blood, and the fire rolls down to his fingertips with it, sparking crimson against his skin.

Between one breath and the next Keith steps out and around the corner, hand half raised and—

Everything stops.

Like it had been waiting for its cue the wind dies down to nothing and what he’s left with is a shocking nothingness. Visibility comes back in seconds, like a veil has been lifted from his eyes and he can see the dark wall of the forest looming in the distance, like it’s watching him, like it’s watching _them_.

Because in front of him are Iverson and two others and they look like they’d be gaping at him if they didn’t look so exhausted. All three of them are covered in dirt and snow up to their elbows, hands white knuckling shovels like their lives depended on it and that might not be the exaggeration Keith wishes it was because— 

Beyond them, in the paddock, is the source of the rot.

Cattle, at least fifteen of them, laying unmoving and half buried in snow. 

Keith’s eyes catch on the nearest one. It’s torn open and glistening, fur slicked with black. The ground around it—around all of them—was slush, a disconcerting grey where the rot and oil had mixed with the snow. There’s a trench dug into the ground and now that wind has died, Keith can see that it runs almost the full circumference of the paddock. 

The flames licking Keith’s wrist splutter and then die off.

“Keith?” 

One of the trappers tugs down his own scarf and suddenly a familiar face is staring back at him. It takes a second longer for the name to follow but when it does, it comes in a voice that sounds like Hunks. 

“Kinkade.” Keith straightens, flicking a droplet of blood from his hand for it to sizzle against the snow. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here, more like it.” 

That disgruntled voice is infinitely more familiar and soon Keith finds himself looking into the annoyed face of James. 

Keith grimaces lightly. 

“Hunk told me what happened. Or part of it, at least. I thought I’d come to lend a hand.” His eyes flicker back to the cattle. “I would have come yesterday if I knew it was like _this_.” Keith can’t keep the faint strains of horror from his voice.

James somehow finds the energy to bristle. “We’re doing fine without you, than—” 

“Enough.” Iverson's voice barks out, rough and tired. “I don’t care what your problem is with each other, but don't you go putting words into my mouth about _my cattle_.”

Keith blinks at Iverson in surprise and he sees James do the same. 

Iverson sighs, a hand coming up to scrub at his face. “I was hoping Garret would mention what happened to you. Think you can do anything about this?”

He gestures expansively at the slaughter behind him and Keith takes that as his cue to step forward. He slips past James with only a brief pause and finally gets a good look at everything. 

He doesn’t want to look at the bodies, not yet so he looks to the ground first. The the first thing he notices is that the ditch is almost fully dug, more of a moat than anything else. It’s not deep, about a foot at most but this close he can see what he hadn’t noticed before—the bottom of the ditch is white. It's not snow, like he had first thought at a distance. He casts a quick look back at the barn and spots the torn sacks leaning up against the wall, almost blending in with the snow. 

“Salt,” Keith mutters. “You were ringing them with salt.”

Iverson nods, face grim. “I know it’s not the best thing but I didn't have anything else to work with and with the wind—we had to lay a trench to keep it in place.” He sighs heavily. “I found the cattle like this yesterday morning but I didn’t notice it at first—the black. It's spreading.”

Keith grimaces and takes a careful step past the almost completed salt ring. 

“You didn't touch any of the bodies, did you?” He picks his way past the first kill. There’s no sign of flies or carrion animals anywhere. 

Iverson scoffs. “I might not be a witch but I know when I shouldn’t mess with something, Keith.”

“Right. Sorry.” 

Like the elk in the forest, the black stains bone shards and hide and the ground around it. If he stares in one place for too long he can almost imagine it spreading, slowed by the snow but inexorable in its quest for something to destroy. 

If left to its own devices it would have hit the salt line and hopefully go no further. As it is, Keith has a better solution. 

Keith rejoins the others briskly, gesturing for them to move back. 

“What are you doing?” James asks, half suspicion and half begrudgingly curious. 

“Salt would work at keeping the rot at bay—” Keith pauses. “Probably. But the only real way to stop it is with iron or to burn it.”

“You sure?” It comes from Kinkade, but unlike with James the question comes off as just a question and not an accusation. 

“It’s what I've done at home.”

Iverson grunts. “So you’ve been having troubles too then.”

“Unfortunately,” Keith sighs. “Stand back and cover your faces.”

Keith reopens the cut on his wrist, ignoring the sharp look James sends his way. His hand is already tacky with drying blood, and now more runs down the back of his hand, trailing down to his fingertips. Keith raises his hand and droplets cling to his skin like dew or rubies before one finally falls to spatter against the cold earth. 

It ignites. 

Like a stuck match or a spark on oil, flame wreathes his hand and curls up from the snow like a crimson flower. It holds for a moment, growing in time with the breath of his lungs and the beat of his heart and then, with barely a thought, it strikes. 

The flame jumps like a living thing from corpse to corpse and somewhere beyond hearing he feels the blackness shriek. 

He clenches his fist, forcing his fire hotter and hotter until the faintest hints of blue could be seen at the heart of it. 

The shriek builds until suddenly it’s more than just something he can only half feel—blackness writhes amongst his flames, rebelling against the heat and he hears the others cry out and stumble back. Keith grits his teeth as the noise rises to a deafening pitch, something high and empty like the howl of the wind. And, somewhere under that is a different sound, familiar. A wolfs howl echoing out across the paddock and the field, questioning.

Keith plants his feet and coaxes the flames higher, burning back the shadows. 

“Stay back,” Keith shouts. 

He hears sounds of agreement from behind him but he’s only listening to them with half an ear, too focused on something else—a shorter howl, almost lost amongst the cacophony. 

It takes longer than he’d like to reduce the bodies to ash. He feels the moment the black gives in, the way the pockets of unnatural cold suddenly collapse into the heat. He keeps the fire burning though, presses it down until it scorches the snow and the earth below the bodies and burns out the rot that had tried seeping into the very soil itself. 

His ears ring in the sudden silence and he smothers the fire carefully. It licks at the skin of his hand and wrist, soft like a caress, but even going slowly the sudden absence of his fires heat is enough to have him swaying on his feet.

A hand grips at his upper arm, steadying him. 

“Fuck,” James hisses, tugging at Keith until he has an arm slung over his shoulder. “You’re freezing.”

“Get him inside,” Iverson snaps out. “Quickly now.”

Keith blinks and shivers. “Wait,” he croaks. “Finish the salt ring. Just in case.”

“On it.” Kinkade ducks down to grab on of the bags, shovel still clutched in his other hand. 

xXx

It's warm inside Iverson’s home. 

Iverson is kneeling at the fireplace when James and Keith stumble in. He waves off Keith’s offer to help, not even bothering to look up from his box of flint. James fairly dumps Keith into the first seat he sees, a high back chair that was softer than sin and possibly older than Iverson. Keith groans and almost slumps into, hand raised and angled to avoid getting blood on the fabric. 

“Middle cupboard,” Iverson says, a rough hand reaching out to grab at Keiths wrist. He hums when he sees the wound and gives Keith a flinty eyed look before turning and sighing at James. “Left a bit. Keep goi—that one.”

James comes over, box in hand. “Sir,” he says, holding it out for Iverson to take. 

Iverson grunts a thanks and pops open the lid revealing bandages, carefully packaged needles and ointments. Keith can’t stop himself from leaning forward to look only to huff when James pushes him back into the chair with an irritated noise. 

“I swear you two are worse than children.” Iverson rolls his eyes, the glass one reflecting in the flickering light. “Now hold _still_ , damnit.”

Iverson cleans the blood from his wrist and hand with methodical movements. James hovers at his shoulder, watching intently though Keith isn't certain what there is to watch; it's just a cut after all. 

After a minute or two of that, when Iverson finally hold Keith’s wrist up to the light and declares it clean, James jerks upright in a sharp movement. 

“I’m gonna help Kinkade.”

He practically runs out of the house and the chill from outside doesn't even have a chance to seep in with how quickly he’s slamming the door shut behind him. 

Keith and Iverson share a look and it’s truly an odd sensation, getting along with each other in silence. 

Keith clenches and unclenches his fingers as Iverson digs through his box, waiting for feeling to return. He feels cold everywhere, but the warmth from the fire and being out of snow helps. Iverson pulls out a familiar jar of ointment, unscrews the cap and takes his wrist again. 

“Is that the one I made you last summer?” Keith blinks. 

“Yup.” Iverson dabs a small amount onto his wrist and carefully works it in.

“Huh,” Keith goes, nonplussed. “Well, at least you know how to read instructions,” he mutters.

Iverson snorts. “You talking about Sanda?”

“Oh.” Keith blinks at him. “You heard about that?”

“Yeah, she mentioned it to me. Said that you were being…” Iverson trails off, frowning. “ _Difficult,_ ” is what he settles on.

Keith fights back the urge to laugh. He doubts she used such diplomatic wording. “You sound like you don’t approve. I though you liked her?”

“She’s the village head and we have history. Saying that I _like_ her would be a tad strong though.”

Keith stares at Iverson in surprise and Iverson huffs, finally tucking the ointment jar away and packing up the rest of the box. 

“I wouldn’t have expected that,” Keith says carefully. This feels important.

Iverson walks away with the box. He takes his time, seemingly shuffling things about on the shelves purely to have something to do without his hands. Keith watches, bewildered. 

Eventually he stops, but he doesn’t turn around. “She’s a strong woman but she has a fairly narrow field of vision. She likes her things how she likes her things and anything that doesn’t fit in that group she finds…distasteful.”

“Like witches,” Keith says dryly.

Iverson grunts in agreement. “She hates that we need one, living out here on Daibazaal’s edge—would probably prefer it if you weren’t here—hell, she’d probably prefer it if the forest didn’t exist either.”

“If she hates it so much then why does she stay?” Keith can’t imagine that; forcing himself to love somewhere he hated. He’s picked up and moved so many times, searching for that place that felt like home that anything less feels like a cage.

Iverson shrugs, finally turning to face Keith. “No idea. Spite maybe? Always wondered myself.”  
Keith hums, wondering briefly but lets it go easy enough. He doesn’t care enough about Sanda to let her take up space in his thoughts when he doesn’t have to.

Keith lets himself sink back into the soft chair, eyes falling closed as Iverson begins bustling around his own kitchen. They flicker back open when he feels the fire stir, and he watches fuzzily as Iverson hangs his old, beaten kettle over the fire, an eclectic set of mugs sitting on the sturdy table along with a tin of tea.

The minutes pass in quiet, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the slow bubbling sound of the water as it heats.

It’s just beginning to rise to a crescendoing shriek when the door flies open with a thud, making the two of them jump. Two snow covered figures stumble in and the door swings shut on the howling of the wind.

“It’s cold as hell out there,” James says from between clenched teeth. 

KInkade grunts and nods as they both strip off their coats and scarves.

“Job done?” Iverson asks, taking the kettle off the fire.

“Yes, Sir,” James nods. “Ditch is dug and the salts been laid.”

“Is it really enough?” Kinkade asks quietly. “That rot looked…evil.”

Iverson pauses in the middle of pouring the water and looks at Keith.

Keith looks up at the two hunters and finds both their eyes already fixed on him. “Should be,” he says. “I felt the…wrongness give out under the fire.”

Iverson grunts, holding out a mug for Keith to take. “Think I’ll be able to use that paddock again one day?”

Keith takes the mug gratefully and the warmth from the old ceramic begins to seep properly into his hands. “I’d give it at least one full moon before you try and I might want to come by and do another burn.”

“I though you said you got rid of the rot,” James asks, taking his own mug from Iverson. “Why would you need to burn it again?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Keith says grimly. “I’ve dealt with the rot on plant matter before, I don’t know if there’s something different about flesh.”

The four of them settle into an uneasy silence, each huddling into their own cups of tea. Keith sips at his own mug, surprising a soft sigh at the warmth that began to spread through him. It wasn’t the best tea he’s ever tasted. Hunk’s was always gently sweet without being overwhelming and his own collection was far vaster, filled with blends he’s made himself. But it was warm, and it calmed a little of the unease that still hung over him which meant that it was just as good as it needed to be.

“Do the deer need to be burned too?” Kinkade asks abruptly.

“…No,” Keith says after a moment. “Daibazaal will take care of that.”

James snorts. “Like that cursed place cares about us.”

“It doesn’t,” Keith agrees easily. “But to protect itself? Then yes, it will.”

Kinkade makes a sound. “I thought whatever did this was from Daibazaal?”

“I don't think so.” He taps a nail against the rim of his mug, listening to the faint noise. “Things have been coming down from the Blackwood Mountains ever since the winter began to deepen. Not just this—I’ve seen other things too, smaller things—shadows and strange animals with too many legs and odd fur and empty eyes.” Keith shakes his head, frowning. “This is different though. It feels…older. _Colder._ The others are basically just animals. This this is too cruel to be that simple.”

“Animals don’t kill for the hell of it,” Iverson agrees. “This thing killed those deer and killed my cattle and didn’t touch a scrap of ‘em. That takes a certain kind of evil.”

Keith stares at him in faint surprise before nodding in agreement. 

“So what do we do about it?” James asks, a faint note of frustration threading itself through his voice. “Can we kill it?”

“You wanna fight that thing?” Kinkade asks, disbelieving. “I figured you were smarter than that.”

“I am,” James says, flushing, “But I don’t want to be a sitting duck either.” He turns to look at Keith again. “So what do we do—we can use fire?”

Keith snorts. “No. _You_ run and if you can’t do that, you hide. And if you can’t do either of those things then Iron is your next best bet—You should go talk to Hunk. Look about getting iron blades, iron shavings and keep trying to convince people to hang horseshoes above their doors just in case.”

James frowns. “What makes you so different?”

Keith fixes him with a look, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. “If I wind up near this thing, fighting it is a last resort, trust me on that. And more than that, my fire is powered by blood magic—it’s not something you can light with any old flint.”

“Thats why I asked after him,” Iverson interrupts. “Knew we’d have to burn it out but I didn’t think it would be something we’d be able to do.”

“Exactly. This thing is dangerous on a different level to what we’ve seen come from the forest before now.”

“And that’s why you came running.”

He shrugs, and then frowns. “Pretty much. I don’t know why Hunk didn’t tell me about the rot though,” Keith says half to himself. “I would have made myself come yesterday if I’d known it was that bad.”

Kinkade shuffles forward. “That was me. I left it out when I told him about the cattle.” When he sees the looks the others give him, he shrugs, face going sheepish. “He looked off already when I went to see him. Didn’t want to stress him out,” he tells Keith earnestly

Keith huffs out a laugh. “I get that, but I think you’re underestimating him a bit.”

“Really,” James says archly.

“Yes.” Keith looks him in the eyes. “Hunk will surprise you, trust me on that.”

Jame grunts but seems to let it go. They drink their tea, savouring the warmth and outside the temperature continues to drop and the clouds above only seems to grow thicker until the strongest light is that being cast by the fire.

The outside seems to only grow more and more hostile as he sits there and the urge to hide inside Iverson’s home is there—he’s almost certain that Kinkade and Jame will be staying the night to avoid the trip back to their own homes in the village. 

But there’s more that Keith needs to do. There are books to read and charms to weave—answers to find about this thing and what, if anything, might keep it from the village and all the defenceless people in it.

And somewhere outside a wolf howls.

Yes, Keith thinks, drinking the last bitter dregs of his tea. It was time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while but it's finally here. Happy Halloween everyone.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to update this every two weeks or so. The next few chapters are already written but please bear in mind that this is still a wip and the world is a little fucked right now and my head's a messy place on a good day. 
> 
> Come yell at me about Sheith on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/PatchOfFeathers)


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